


Just Enough

by gigiree, sinnabee



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Depression, F/F, F/M, M/M, Motorcycles, No Smut, Reader Is Not Frisk, Rescue Missions, Road Trip, Slow Burn, Time Loop, Time loops matter, i have no clue what i'm doing, monster racism, reader is a nursing student, reader is female, you die like twice.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-06
Updated: 2018-01-10
Packaged: 2018-05-31 14:49:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 113,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6474595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gigiree/pseuds/gigiree, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinnabee/pseuds/sinnabee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You've been caught in a repeating year-long timeloop. No matter what you change, nothing else does much but react to your changes. So you repeat the last year of Nursing School, hoping for something to change. When it does, you finally meet your mysterious neighbor Sans. Together you work to break the resets and maybe, that's just enough to save Frisk and Paps from an unhappy end.</p><p>****<br/>"You know Sans, the wonderful thing about life is that you can screw up. You can screw up so many times and things matter. And that's okay, because honestly...that's how you learn."</p><p>"kid...that doesn't mean making the same mistakes is okay...and sometimes...there are things you want to forget."</p><p>"I know, but I think the best we can do is accept those things and move forward. and that should be just enough."</p><p>"just enough for what?"</p><p>"Just enough to live."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. To Give Them Hope

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sinnabee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinnabee/gifts).



It’s the strangest feeling really when the alarm wakes you up. Blaringly loud, battering fiercely against your cloudy thoughts. You bury your head further into her pillow, fruitlessly grasping at the last wisps of a half-remembered dream. The sunlight that filters through the gray clouds outside is hardly bright, but it seems to be just enough to dissipate the memories like mist.

 

You push back hair from your face, spitting out the dried strands from an even drier mouth. You taste the bitterness of sleep and dead air and ready yourself to look at the time and date. The alarm keeps on sounding, seemingly indignant that you’re still on your elbows, unwilling to move.

 

It’s become a routine thing.  _ Dream. Wake. Dread _ . Whine about the unfairness of it all.

 

You glance sharply at the date and time, heart hammering and dread curling heavy at the bottom of your chest. You know before you see the red digital numbers that nothing has changed...or maybe everything has changed all over again.

 

It’s hard to analyze things when you’re caught in a time loop.

 

_ Back and back and back _ to a year ago again. 

 

The clock reads 6:30 AM on a dreary April day and an ugly bitterness seems to well up inside you, blocking your breaths and battering against the back of your lips until you shout-

 

 ** _“_** Fuck. Shit. Damn. CRAP! **_WHAT IS THIS?!_** _”_

 

You sit up quickly, rubbing at your eyes to clear away the tears, but nothing helps because everything in the past year was for nothing.  _ (And the year before that, and the year before that.) _ The tears overwhelm you, and you are left with just a terrifyingly neutral apathy that somehow feels worse than the anger that had buoyed you the first time through.

 

The alarm keeps chiming, and you press the silencing button mechanically, still curled up in the nest of blankets you piled onto your bed to give you some sort of sensation. Anything to help you feel like you were still here...still existing.

 

It’s all so predictable. Just like clockwork...the blocky red numbers change soundlessly. It’s 6:58 AM by the time you’ve gathered up the pieces of your miserable looping life and let your bare feet fall dully onto the ugly green carpet. You’re still wearing the warm gray sweats and the loose t-shirt with a faded star pattern. ( _ An outfit you were positive you had thrown out at least half a year ago...or would it be in half a year?) _

 

Your blue scrubs are still in a well-remembered pile by the closet door, when you clearly remembered freshly laundering them for the last week of clinicals. 

 

Everywhere you looked, nothing was in the same place it had been yesterday, but everything was in the same place it had been approximately a year ago. How cruel it was, that time could give you a whole year to hope and dream and work hard, and then snatch it all back.

 

But something within you still thuds softly, and it is this that pushes you to stand and to get ready for a long day of classes. 

 

_ “If not for me, then for them.”  _ You mutter quietly, memories shifting through the apathetic gray to help you a bit in your efforts.

 

It’s somewhere in between you washing your face and talking yourself into another year-long existence of trying that something miraculous happens...something altogether unexpected and  **_not like clockwork._ **

 

It’s a small thing in the grand scheme of it all, but the muffled shattering of glass on the other side of the wall you share with your  _ never-been-seen _ neighbor is a blessing.The clock shows 7:23 AM. 

 

Something is different, just a little something, but it’s just enough for hope to bloom as full and golden as the “contraband” yellow flowers that sit on your kitchen table.

* * *

 

 

You’re running late, but there’s something that keeps you rooted on the little, woven “Not Welcome” mat in front of your neighbor’s apartment door.

 

You stare long and hard at the dark whorls on the wood, briefly noting that the numbers are a little lopsided. You’ve passed this door thousands of times, never taking notice of it all, caught up in the misery and difficulty that was your life as a nursing student. 

 

But today...today it might just be the most thrilling thing in existence.

 

Something had changed. And it was this new development that made your heart race. Your loosely formed fist was poised to knock, hesitating because there was real fear that you had imagined it all. And thinking logically, small deviations hadn’t been unheard of. The past four time loops had taught you that.

 

But this was unprovoked by any changes you had made. This was entirely independent on whether you decided to walk this way or that, or had decided to go somewhere a few minutes later or earlier.

 

You can feel your pulse thudding heavily, everything else soundless save for the sharp breaths you take and the slight shifting of your boots on the mat.

 

The shattering of glass still echoes in your thoughts, giving you a strange kind of courage. So you knock, accidentally hitting too hard in your excitement and waving your hand in the air to dissipate the blunt pain radiating from your bruised knuckles. You mutter curses under your breath, sneaking glances at a woefully closed door.

 

No answer. 

 

You try again. 

 

_ And again.  _

 

But nobody came.

 

You glance at your phone, noting that anymore time spent staring at the door and you wouldn’t even make it in time for your biochemistry class.

 

So quickly, you adjust your gray backpack so that it is slung in front of you. You hastily rummage through and tear out the corner of a sheet of lined paper and dig for a pen.  _ (You’ve never been very organized.)  _ You pull out the first one you touch and frown when you look at the color. But there’s no time to judge your finals’ week writing tool choices. 

 

You pen a small message, using the rough wood of the door as a flat surface.

 

The note is pushed under the door, wrinkled and messy. It rips slightly as you shove it haphazardly through the slim crack. Then without looking at the door anymore, you fix your backpack to rest heavily against your back and proceed down the hallway with lighter steps. 

 

For reasons you cannot fathom, your hands are clammy and you wipe them fruitlessly against the sides of your jeans. Your force yourself to keep walking, all the while deciding that today will be a day of deviations because you refuse to let the dull, gray apathy cloud your life again.

 

Golden hope sways headily in your thoughts, and brings the smallest of smiles to your face.

 

* * *

 

He’s been through this routine before. He’s been through the timeline resetting crap way back when the sky was just a story and stars were just corporeal crystals set into an abysmally dark cavern.

 

This time is so much worse. Because at least back then, the timeline had never extended longer than a few months at best. 

 

Here, it was a year. A sad, pathetic collection of days racing towards a circular end. It swallowed itself whole, an Ouroboros-like hell filled with the constant knowledge that nothing was right. 

 

And here, he knew nothing. He knew nothing but what he had experienced himself and this world was so vast, possibilities rushed in from every angle, every side until his head hurt trying to wrap his head around it all. 

 

But the worst part of it all is the gnawing guilt. The “what-ifs” and the countless patterns retraced to back before the looping year. 

 

And the wall his desk sits against is once again bare. He knows what waits for him in his mailbox.  _ The Mt.Ebbot Chronicle _ , an innocently rolled up local newspaper. But he doesn’t need to read the headline or article that spans the front of the page.

 

Not when he can easily keep re-reading the barrage of texts that had caused his phone to buzz crazily the last day before the timeline had started.

 

**_From: Tori_ **

 

**_[Sans. This is Asgore. Tori is not feeling well enough to message you_ **

**_Frisk is...missing.]_ **

 

**_1 Call from Tori._ **

 

**_From: Undyne_ **

**_[Hey!]_ **

**_[Have you heard from Papyrus recently? He was AWOL from our training session yesterday.]_ **

 

**_6 Missed Calls from Undyne._ **

 

**_1 Missed Call from Unknown Number._ **

 

So no, he doesn’t need to read the paper or turn on the news to know that a search has been called for the missing child ambassador of monsters and the missing skeleton monster that had always been such a kindly soul in that small town at the base of Mt. Ebott.

 

He doesn’t need to do anything to know the speculation that will arise from other humans, that maybe Frisk was kidnapped or that Papyrus is also gone and that the trail will run clear across the country, fading somewhere in between fields of corn and large gaping chasm that is spanned by a dark, deep river running with fiercely sweeping currents.

 

He knows that a year from now, the search will end when he fails to find anything but a tattered red scarf and a blood stained patch of a musty old striped sweater.

 

He knows that no matter what he does, no matter how he deviates or fights or tries, the outcome will be the same, and the timeline will reset.

 

But he can’t help but feel an immense relief every time, because waking up to a dreary April morning and the muffled cursings of a frustrated neighbor means that Papyrus and Frisk are alive again and that there  _ is still a chance. _

 

And that’s all that keeps him moving. There is still a chance, but the same long-held nihilism from before has come bursting back, because a future that had once extended out as far the stars was now cropped back to a year of torturous anticipation and he’s barely holding it together.

 

So when the muffled shouts come again across the thin wall and his phone is blissfully silenced, he is left alone with his blaring anger at odds with his gray apathy. It takes so much effort for him to even pull back the covers and he  _ hates _ it so much.

 

He doesn’t know if he wants to die, but the thought whispers at the back of his head.

 

He’ll just be back here when the loop is over. Before he knows it, his sight is filled with a searing blue and the anger that hadn’t been winning up until the thought is now all he can feel. It burns...it burns and he is tired and so fed up.

 

He gives a small flick of his hand.  A pretty blue vase, with the words  **“WORLD’S SECOND BEST BROTHER”** painted lovingly on it, is sent flying across the room to shatter against the wall he shares with his noisy neighbor. The noise is deafening, and the water and wilted flowers that had been inside are strewn all over the ugly green carpet.

 

When he sees what he broke, he slides out from under the cover gingerly, and picks up the pieces regretfully. He’s long learned that crying does nothing to fix the situation, so he wipes away whatever tries to fall from his eyes on the back of his sleeve.

 

_ “I’m sorry, Paps. Sorry, Frisk.” _

 

And he stays sitting stiffly on the floor of his bedroom, cradling the shards of the vase to his chest.

 

The really loud knock that comes from his front door is startling enough. Annoyance flickers through him at first, wondering if the person outside could not read. He ignores it and the softly nudging thoughts that attempt to break through his haze.

 

As different as this is, this is a direct consequence of his throwing the vase. 

 

_ Knock. Knock _ . 

 

He doesn’t answer.

 

He sighs in relief when the knocking stops, only to tense when he hears the slight crinkling of a paper being shoved underneath his door.

 

Sans steps very slowly into his slippers. He shuffles just as slowly through his room and across the living room. He pauses only to set the pieces of the vase onto the coffee table and then heaves a deep breath when he looks at the balled up little paper dusty and torn from its journey into his abode.

 

With near trembling hands, he reaches down. And he doesn’t know why, but the thought of golden hope sparks at the sight of the note and he tells himself to stop being so  **_rib_ ** **diculous** .

 

_ (Old habits die hard. Humor is his only way to fight back.) _

 

His breath stops when he turns it over and there, scrawled in purple glittering ink.

 

**_“You made my day change for the better. Whatever you broke was just enough. Thank you for that.”_ **

**_-B._ **

 

And as cryptic as it all is, the golden hope curls delicately molded petals slightly, still a budding thing. 

 

But your words are _just enough_ too...or maybe more than that. He’s not sure, but he’ll be sucked into the Void before he rules out the possibility that he is not alone this time around.

 


	2. To Make the Cogs Spin in Another Direction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anomaly? Is that a good thing or bad thing? In which we get some more time line shenanigans and you make friends with a Fantastic Fish.

You feel a slight panic rise as you glance quickly at your phone. It pierces red and sharp through the golden haze of expectation that has been hanging around you since this morning’s “event”. There are very few things that make you embrace the loop and _turn...turn_...like a dutiful little cog in a well-oiled clock. But the first day of the year is always one of them.

The rain had just begun falling by the time you turn the key into the ignition of your motorbike. The engine roars to life shaking the small droplets that crest the dulled teal paint. Your hands tense a little on the handlebars, fingers stretching over the clutch and gas as you stare out the exit of the parking garage.

Thankfully, the drizzle is light enough not to seep through your thick anorak jacket and your hair is messily tucked into the heavy black helmet. The warmth of your vehicle hums pleasantly underneath you, spreading up your limbs with welcoming tendrils. The cars line up along your desired lane, waiting for the light up ahead to turn red. You spot an opening soon enough. With a very quick right turn and a rumbling engine, you find a place in the bumper to bumper line up.

The rain patters on, marking time as it dashes harshly against you. You take the necessary route, all the while, letting the tension seep into your very marrow. The lines of your body remain taut and near parallel to your bike.

The journey to the university takes no more than fifteen minutes on a good day, but it always feels so much longer when you have to be aware of every single happening around you. The world is a blurred mass of information, compiled into brief colorful impressions.

But you’ve been through this day a whopping eight times already, and even if it’s been a year, you remember these impressions with a harrowing accuracy.

The blaring siren of an ambulance making its awkward way past traffic. The thrumming of a strangely melancholy R&B song emanating from someone’s too loud car stereo. The little monster kid in his yellow rain coat running clumsily across the street you're stopped at. The way the other pedestrians seem to give the tiny little thing a wide berth, even when his smile is bright and his cheerful hello’s are nothing but genuine.

Bile rises in your throat as your remember the first time. You had been nothing but an observer. Always watching...it’s the one thing you hate most about yourself. It marked your past, ruined your precious relationship with... _him_. The honking of a horn behind you rips you from the entrenching fabric of your thoughts. A familiar pang of guilt  echoes through you, but you hold steady on your rumbling bike.

( _The first timeline was when you hadn’t taken the left lane and a silvery sports car had rammed full speed into the innocent child_ . _An accident they had said_ . But you knew better. _The dust had been washed away by the rain so quickly...you brought yellow flowers to the corner of that intersection every day that time cycle.)_

So again, you endure the blaring honking behind you, even as you remain idle for a full thirty second wait after the light turns green. When you finally do move, a silver sports car makes a show of pulling up beside you to give you the finger and mutter something you’ve seen enough times to know is something like _“dirty-monster lover”_.

Let the man hate you. Better you than the child with bright yellow scales and a delicately balanced future in a world that both marvels at and despises his existence.

With that last thought, you decide to start your day of deviations. The monster kid was safe. **Clockwork** was only necessary for times when another’s life depended on it. And today was supposed to be a whole new pattern.

The shattering of glass resounds again in your thoughts and brings a bigger smile to your face. Your cup of happiness is full when you round the corner the little monster kid had crossed to and see him jumping straight into a puddle, his scaled reptilian tail lashing out in pure, unadulterated _joie de vivre_.

You feel yourself press a little harder on the gas, and you speed up down the alternate route. His yellow scales remind you of golden hope.

And the teal of your bike and the white of your knuckles and the gray of the sky and the yellow of the child all swirl into a complicated amalgamation of tentative exhilaration. You’re so caught up in the freedom of it all, that you ignore the frisson of suspicion that laces its way down your spine.

You get the feeling you're being watched.

It’s hard to see completely through your visor, but you think you catch a flash of searing blue to your right on the cracked sidewalk. Your heart races, leaping up into your throat and stoppering your breathing. The rain falls harder and you can’t look anymore because weaving through traffic requires all of your concentration.

By the time you’ve made it the university parking garage, the feeling lingers...crawling down your back and settling into something that can easily be dismissed as paranoia. You remove your helmet, giving a cursory glance to the darkest corner of the floor you’re on, but there is no one.

You sigh in defeat, dropping your head onto your hand. This time-looping nonsense must be really messing with your brain.

* * *

So far away from where it all started. So far away from the orange hues of a hopeful sunset and a small town and a gaping mountain.

But it’s all the same.

New Town was huge. Despite the deceptively terrible name, it was a bustling metropolis, made even more prominent by the great research university located in the center. It boasted a population as varied as its topography of rolling hills sweeping into a quiet little bay. Diversity seemed to be something the inhabitants prided themselves on, and yet when the first few monsters had started a diaspora, finding niches and homes here, the response had been the same as Ebott Town’s.

A spectrum as dizzying as his first view of the stars had been, filled with wholehearted welcome and wholehearted hate. It is an aspect of the Aboveground he’s gotten used to. It’s almost painfully boring; reactions were so predictable. And they had gotten even more so after the first three loops.

The first time-line had been a terrible thing to start. Sans had still been reeling from the disappearances. That day, he hadn’t gone into work at the lab. He knew what would happen when he didn’t answer the numerous calls from Alphys, but he was too worried to care.

She came knocking on his door, trembling in her white lab coat, but with a strange look of resolution on her face. She offered her sympathies, and had made her way sweetly into his apartment. They spoke for a bit, discussing possible solutions because she was just as worried.  If it hadn’t been for her logical entreaties, he would have used every single last iota of his magic to cross the country all the way back to Ebott to find them.

The television had been on at the time, droning quietly in the background. Then the report came on.

_“Monster child involved in fatal accidental collision. More details will be released as the police wrap up their investigation. Back to Melissa with the latest..”_

Sans watched the news report with an eerie silence, an oppressive heady shadow falling over his living room that made Alphys shake a little bit more.

The anger had roiled in him terribly. He had toyed with the idea of appearing directly in the man’s cell, not waiting for the human system to dole out a punishment Sans was all too willing to give a thousand time over. For once, he had been unable to move from the sheer weight of his want to do _something_.

Papyrus was missing. Frisk was missing. A child had been _murdered_ in cold blood. No matter what the reports mentioned about an _alleged_ accident. He heard a loud rushing, all encompassing as his rage burned.

He didn’t notice that he was speaking his thoughts out loud. Didn’t notice that his magic was volatile and glowing and that bones had pierced through his couch and television. Tendrils of blue still swept from his left eye, _searching._

Alphys had built up her courage marvelously enough to latch onto his sleeve. She had looked a strange mix of angry and scared.

_"W-would Papyrus want you to do that? Think about what he’s going to say when we find him again!”_

Alphys’ words had hit **hard**.

That first time line had been...fruitless and painfully filled with regrets.

And then it had reset...not far enough back to bring back his brother and friend, but enough to save the life of an innocent.

But no matter what he tried, the monster kid still died. He had been so close to giving up, deciding that maybe destiny was an actual thing and that the poor thing was just meant to die on that date and time.

He had gone to the intersection on his fourth loop, **7:55 AM** on a dreary April day.

But the kid had crossed the street just fine, the silver car that would do the deed was nowhere to be seen.

* * *

_There’s the loud screeching of metal, the jolt that goes through you as you’re thrown off your motorcycle. A loud popping sound as you hit your shoulder against the asphalt. The pain is nearly blinding, but you grit your teeth and curl into a shuddering little ball, your heart beat resounding._

_On your second loop, you had made a point of crashing your bike at low speed into the bumper of a very familiar silver sports car._

_You can briefly hear the man’s angry cries through your own keening, but you could care less. He’s  threatening a legal battle that would empty your already empty pockets._

_When the paramedics come and your lifted onto a stretcher, you suck in a sharp breath as the pain in your shoulder goes from throbbing to lancing needles all up your spine. But despite it all, you find enough pride and righteous anger to say-_

_“I’m so sorry. It...it was raining so hard and the light was green. It was an accident.” You offer, trying your best to give him a scathing look. But it’s so hard to look intimidating when you’re laid out on a stretcher with a neck brace hoisting your chin up and paramedics fussing over you._

_But you feel a pleasant sense of vindication at the disgusted surprise that crosses his face. He goes pale, and his eyes are wild. Those were the very same words he had said during the first time line._

_"Fuck you.” He spits, relief palpable on his face as youre wheeled up and away into the ambulance._

_You catch one last glimpse of your wonderfully wrecked Honda rebel. You don’t know if you’re crying because of the damage done or the relief you feel that the little monster child gets to live today._

_You would have to ride the bus for the rest of that loop, but it was so worth it. The “contraband” yellow flowers you bought ended up in your bedroom, carefully hidden from your strange landlady and her irrational fear of the pretty things._

_You were just glad you wouldn’t have to place them on the corner of a busy intersection anymore._

* * *

It’s a thing of repetition, making him clutch his skull, the tips of his phalanges clicking softly against his temples as he struggled to make sense of it all.

The divergences are nearly infinite because this world is so much bigger than a cavern under a mountain. The small things that change according to his actions are reactionary, but there is one anomaly that presents quite the conundrum.

He had spent weeks keeping track of it, trying to find out why that little monster child survived after that fourth loop. And he found it too much to keep track of, eventually thanking whoever was in charge of his cruel existence for such a small mercy.

The anomaly had proven reliable enough to leave that aspect alone. So Sans had turned all his attentions into papering the wall in back of his desk with newspaper cuttings and police reports, connecting the pieces with a spool of fraying red thread. The resets seemed to have no pattern other than keeping the year and he was positive it had everything to do with Frisk. But the times he left this city were as many times as he would find himself back in his dreary apartment, without much else to hold onto but the memory of a tattered red scarf.

But today is the start of another loop and a deviation of the strangest circumstances.

He’s letting the hesitant blooming hope lead him to action. It’s so easy to figure out where the note had come from, considering _his neighbor_ was the only who had probably heard him break the vase.

And it was child’s play to follow her on her morning commute, watching her every move. For once, he doesn’t spend this day rolled in a pile of blankets. For once, he lets the thought of “just enough” wash him away in a sea of momentum.

He’s tired, stamina long drained by the constant “shortcuts”, but the rain patters on, and he lets the magic burn. He ignores the strange looks he gets from humans on the street, as he rounds corners and buries his head further into his blue hood.

_(He’s long since decided that the ends justify the means, however illegal and creepy this might be.)_

After ten minutes or so, the magic in his left eye fades. The faint hope is dulled to nothing but a glimmer, prodding him to see this through.

Everything seems so disappointingly normal. She’s just a young adult making her way through a life as predictable as anything else he may have suspected. Her reactions to the situations around her are standard and her expressions are well hidden behind a heavy helmet.

He’s about to give up, shoving his hands into the deep pockets of his jacket when he hears the blaring of car horns. His eyes widen, the pinpricks of light shining brighter when he realizes that they’re all beeping at the girl.

The light is already green, but her head is turned towards the little monster child, watching as he takes the last step onto the sidewalk. Her previously tensed form seems to relax, and finally she turns to face the front before hanging a left to follow down the street the kid had been traveling along.

Sans doesn’t miss the dark expression from the driver behind her. The silver vehicle speeds up to pull up alongside her. He can see a finger sticking up through the window and hear vague insults being hurled at her, even as the motorcycle purrs louder and she pulls away from the _would-be-murderer_.

He’s found her.

The anomaly.

* * *

_‘So much for clockwork_.’

Your breath curls delicately into the cold, rainy air. Your chest heaves with the effort of the run. The thud of your boots against boggy grass is grossly squelching as your legs eat up the distance between the parking garage and the large brick building looming in the distance.

Your backpack bounces awkwardly with your strides, and you can feel the misplaced pens at the bottom of your bag poking into your spine. You adjust the straps a little tighter, but it’s so hard to be comfortable when your thick jacket is so restricting.

Something is bound to go wrong.

And it does.

Your stomach flip flops when you feel your foot sink into a hidden hole in the grass. For a second, your sight is filled with nothing but gray sky, a straining pressure on your right ankle.

Something gives...and you find yourself rolling to the ground, clutching your leg to you as you groan in pain. You open your mouth in a soundless cry-

_“OH CRAP!”_

For a maddening second, you wonder if your voice has always been that grating and loud. But then you're being pulled up and supported by an intensely tight grip. You instinctively keep any weight off your right leg, balancing awkwardly with the jostling movements.

“You okay, wimp?! That was a pretty bad faceplant you took!” Says the voice as the same grip relaxes a bit, and you find yourself leaning against something very solid and smelling strangely of sea brine and leather.

“Ah...I’m sorry..I’m such a klutz. Oh my god...thank you so...much.”

You trail off as you finally lift your head from the stranger’s shoulder to catch a glimpse of pretty turquoise scales. Whatever sunlight has managed to sieve in through the clouds glimmers off the lovely color, contrasting greatly with the streaming red hair that falls over this person’s leather jacket.

You blink once...then twice.

“What’s the matter, Kid? Is your ankle bothering you?”

Her tone is concerned, but there’s an undercurrent of suspicion when you continue gaping like an idiot. Her fierce expression is tempered by the warmth in her golden eye. You feel the pretty fish monster begin to tense against your weight, and quickly slap a grateful smile onto your pathetic face.

It’s hard to look comfortable when your ankle is throbbing and your hair is in your eyes, but you try.

“Oh man! I’m so sorry for the bother. I’m really sorry. I was late to Professor Alphys’ class, and I had a pretty crazy morning, and oh, thank you so much for helping me up. I just...oh god, I’m babbling again. Sor-”

You find your words cut off when you are pulled into the noogie to shame all noogies. An elbow digs bluntly into your scalp, and for some reason, your main concern is her dirtying her nice jacket with all the mud you’ve got caked in your hair.

Briefly, you wonder if this is just some special fish monster ritual, and decide to wait it out, limply in her grasp.

“STOP. APOLOGIZING. DORK!”

She punctuates her assault, using one arm to noogie and the other to pin you against her effortlessly so that there is no weight on your leg...on either of your legs to be precise, but the speed of the process is so dizzying, that you can’t really find a way to organize any coherent thoughts.

When she finally sets you down, it’s more slowly than you expected. Her hands brace your shoulders, and help you to gather your bearings.

“Now that that’s settled...Name’s Undyne!”

She points to herself, her large grin exposes a gleaming set of fangs, but you can’t find it in yourself to be shocked. She’s not the first monster you’ve met by a long shot. She’s certainly the most energetic, but her name rings dimly chiming bells at the back of your head.

But timelines are a tricky business, and you can’t be sure where or how you know of her. Her look of expectation is endearingly excited, childishly expectant in a way that reminds you of… _(no, not now. No guilt, please.)_

You shake your head slightly to clear your thoughts, and anchor your experience to the _now_ to keep you from floating off into regret.

“My name is ____. But people just call me _Bee_.”

Your introduction is so stiff and awkward, but you’ve had to use it so many times at clinicals, that it’s become a mechanical thing. You fire off your name to the patient...to the professors...to new acquaintances...as if it is a slightly unpleasant experience. You emphasize your nickname in the hopes that it will stick.

You see the questions race across Undyne’s steady gaze, and you recoil slightly from her support. Her steadying hold on you by now is loose, and you’ve already found your tentative balance by cocking your hip and placing all the weight on your left side again.

She seems to notice your discomfort, and moves her hands away. She brings them up to her and crosses her arms a little defensively. You don’t mean to be a wet blanket, although your hair is soaked and pressed flat to your head. So you offer her an apologetic smile. _(You’re not looking for another noogie.)_

“It’s a long story, but call me whatever you want. It’s nice to meet you, Undyne.”

You extend out a mud-encrusted hand to her, and wince when you see it. Before you can retract it though, Undyne has it engulfed in a crushing grip and proceeds to nearly wring your hand, as if intending to shake it dry.

Her grin is blinding, challenging and welcoming all at once.

“Nice to meet you too, Punk! ”

You briefly recall the sharp shooting pain of your shoulder popping out of its socket in the first time line. But then this is another deviation, and you will accept it with same golden hope...golden as the amber that swirls in Undyne’s cheerful gaze.

You tighten your grip on her hand, remembering the blazing emotions that had prompted you to speed on your motorcycle. With the same fervor, you follow her handshake. Your smile turns into a grimace with the effort, but it’s a nice feeling all the same.

When she lets go, you’re left with a strange sense of accomplishment, filling you up to the brim with satisfaction. _You persevered and that’s just enough._

“So...you’re one of Alphys’ kids?” Undyne asks distractedly rolling on the balls of her feet. She seems to be straining to keep her energy in check, every movement of hers is staccato and every word of hers is fast. She seems a little nervous. Her energy doesn't seem to come from a positive place at the moment and her large smile seems to slip off at intervals while her eye dims as if she is remembering something unpleasant. 

But she's trying so hard to keep the conversation lively, and you admire her perseverance. It's just enough for you to muster up your own skills and answer with enthusiasm.

“I guess so? Professor Alphys teaches my Biochem class and the Monster Community Health one.”

She nods in intense satisfaction, pride slipping into her smile as she says-

“NICE! You’ve got the best teacher, kid! YOU’RE SO LUCKY!”

“Y-yeah. Professor Alphys is pretty great. She’s super patient and takes the time to explain things. And she does amazing research in multiple fields.”

“YEP! My girl’s pretty DAMN AMAZING! Glad there are others here who can see that!”

Your genuine approval of Alphys seems to only cement Undyne’s appreciation of making your acquaintance. Something in her gushing stands out.

_'My girl’_

Recognition dawns like sunrise in your head. The distant bells become alarms in your memory until the image of a very red, very flustered, Professor Alphys comes to mind. You remember one certain class...where the tiny, yellow reptilian monster had nearly fallen over herself trying to change a picture of her and Undyne kissing to the lecture slides. She had explained to the amused students, in between numerous apologies, that that was her girlfriend.

You vaguely remember something about a long distance relationship, but the details are fuzzy. _Time looping does nothing to improve your capacity for memory._

You snap your fingers sharply, your mouth rounding out in understanding.

“You’re _fine fish girlfriend_!”

The words tumble out stupidly from your big fat mouth. You don’t mean them, but it’s the moniker the class had given to the professor’s girlfriend. You feel the heat blossom on your cheeks despite the light drizzle, and you know you’ve gone red as the colors of your school’s mascot. You bring your hands up to cover your mouth, in case any more stupid words decide to take a leap off the cliff of spontaneity.

Undyne’s gaping mouth would be comical, were it not for the slightly spiked fins edging the sides of her face.

You lower your hands to apologize.

“Ah...oh...wait...I’m so so-.”

Her laughter is wonderful as it cuts right through your “sorry.” It’s full and loud and completely “not sorry” for being the way it is. She snorts and slaps your shoulder with mirth, only stopping to breath once in awhile.

“Oh...My...God... _WHAT THE HELL, BEE?_!”

She devolves into a series of breathless guffaws that are just enough to make you laugh too.

Between breathless giggles, you tell her the story of how she came to be called that. And you both lean heavily against each other as you struggle to gather the tiny pieces left of your composure.

The pain in your ankle is now just a dull throbbing and the ache in your ribs is more prominent from all the laughter. When you two finally relax and breathe, the clock tower on the other side of campus chimes.

 _"Aww crap, I’m late.”_ You sigh, but let it slide. Deviations have turned out to be quite the convoluted adventures, but you’re happier than you’ve been in a long time and you’ve made a potential new friend.

“Ahhhrgghh...THIS IS MY BAD! Shit, okay. Let me just talk to Alphys and-”

You shake your head vigorously.

“It’s not your fault. Timing isn’t always my specialty. So I won’t let every missed second **tick** me off.” You joke.

Undyne groans.

“I should have just left your face in the mud, Loser.”

“What can I say? You pity the “low-life” in me, Undyne.”

She sighs, pointing at your right ankle that you have gingerly begun to place on the ground.

“I’m gonna say that’s karma. And also, are you okay to walk by yourself, or should I take you somewhere to get that fixed?”

You roll your ankle slowly, hissing slightly at the tender feeling laced around it.

“Ah...I think...I’ll be fine. I’m just going to head up to Health Center and get some sports wrap, or something.”

“Are you sure?!”

She looks increasingly dubious, but you are confident in your three years of nursing education thus far and can feel that this is just a big sprain, nothing too severe.

You point to yourself in much the same way she had when she was introducing herself. Your confidence seems to shine through, making your eyes bright and alive with a vibrancy Undyne hadn’t expected.

“Third year nursing student. I’m pretty sure I’ll be okay.”

You’re smile is just enough to reassure her that everything is fine.

“Alright, but just in case…” She lays out her hand, palm up towards you, waggling her fingers in expectation. “Let me give you my phone number.”

You hesitate for a moment and then remember that golden hope.

You lay your phone in her hand and watch with a bit of awe as she speedily enters her phone number, calls her own phone so that she has your contact info, and then hands it back to you all in the span of a few seconds.

She smiles sheepishly at your impressed hum.

“Just really used to using phones, I guess.”

And then, with a final wave, she sprints off in the direction opposite of yours. You watch her slim form cross the lawn in half the time you were doing before you fell and feel a little out of shape. You smile when she rounds a corner and disappears, positive that _fine fish girlfriend_ is looking for _sweet dino prof_.

You have to stop yourself from full on rolling on the gritty pavement with laughter when you receive a call from **“Fantastic Fish Friend” .**

You answer quickly, hobbling under the cover of a tree with swaying foliage for shelter.

*** “Hello, FFF. What’s up?”**

**“Hey dork. Where’s Alphys’ office?”**

She seems a bit defensive when you start laughing into the phone, but soon calms down enough so that you can direct her to the right building. She hangs up with the threat of a showdown when you two next meet and gives a quick thanks that is swallowed up by loud exclamations of “I MISSED YOU, BABE!”

You assume she found the professor alright and hang up when it seems the call will venture into private territory. Still laughing, you make your way into the infirmary to wrap up your ankle.

The same feeling of paranoia makes the hairs that aren't wet or sticking to your skin rise, and you look around quickly.

The courtyard around the health center is small. There are no dry places to sit. No one wants to be out in the rain and those that do cross through it are doing so quickly to get through to the building encircling it.

You take a deep breath and dismiss it. Nothing is going to dampen your newfound hope. Not even the rain.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There might be confusion as to why Reader's and Sans' counts of the time loops don't match up. It's because Reader doesn't remember the earlier ones. Sans has already been through this stuff before and was able to recognize being caught in one sooner.


	3. To Exceed Your Expectations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which it still rains. Remember, April showers and you go to a library.

Time has become a funny thing to you. On the one hand, it means everything to you.

On the other, the clock can tick and tock, and you wouldn’t even bat an eye.

The time loops have enfolded you into a blanket of hazy expectations. Predictable patterns that draw you into a dull-eyed existence. Even the golden hope from this loop’s deviations is starting to fade a little. Nothing big has happened, and it’s getting harder for you with each new reset to find something worth _living_ for.

_(That’s a lie. The picture frame face down on your desk should be enough for now.)_

You are numb as you flip through the channels, your thumb clicking the remote repeatedly. You frown because you’ve done this Saturday morning so many times before. You’ve seen these commercials in that exact order before. You settle on a something with dimly shining colors. The vivid purple is pleasing to your unfocused eyes, and you don’t really pay attention to what you’ve chosen to watch.

Your phone remains cruelly silent through this whole endeavor. Your door remains unvisited.

There is only the light drizzling of the rain against your window, the soft swaying of the magnolia tree outside against your wall. The volume is low on the channel you’ve stopped mindlessly on, picking the show at random. You’re curled up on your lumpy, blue couch. Your gray sweats are freshly laundered. Your black hoodie is not.

There’s cooled coffee in a Christmas-themed mug on the rickety coffee table in between you and the T.V.

The only bright things in this moment are the shifting colors on your television and the wilting golden flowers on the dining table behind you.

And like you’ve been doing for the past two days, you check your phone and press the home button with your free hand...just to make sure you’re not missing any messages from Undyne.

You hadn’t seen her after that first encounter. And then your correspondence had been a light-hearted, if slightly drawn out series of messages about anything and everything. Her earnestness to keep up the conversation had been tempered by the long time in between texts. From what little you could gather, something bad had happened at home and she had come to bring Professor Alphys back for a bit.

“Family problems” Undyne had typed out vaguely. And then she had quickly sent out:

**[It was nice to meet you. It would have been nice to hang out at least once before I left, but things are not okay right now. My flight leaves in a few hours. Take care of that ankle, Nerd.]**

So yeah, nothing on that end. The most recent message in your exchange with her had been your own reply to her hastily typed out apology.

**To Undyne:**

**[No worries. I understand. Hope everything’s okay and that you have a safe flight.]**

Your inbox is otherwise filled with half-hearted invitations to a study session and one from your friend Catherine with a sad face and a plea to “please get a social life.”

You heave a very disappointed sigh, letting your shoulders slump backwards and the thick blanket shifts lower down your lap. Your attention is briefly diverted when the speakers of your television rattle with the sheer volume of whoever is on it right now.

The bright magenta and silvery shades flashing across the screen resolve themselves into one of your favorite actors. A small, tired smile arcs across your lips as you listen to his operatic declarations of “true love” and fighting for what is right.

You echo the lines along with Mettaton, just a little self-conscious.

 _"Oh, my love. Please stay with me._ ” You’re voice warbles pitifully against his masterfully woven notes, his soprano extending into a series of riffs and runs that could put even the best human singer to shame.

The scene cuts to commercial, with the announcer saying they will return soon to the “new episode” of _Tinful Hearts_. New episode is relative because you’ve seen this one a minimum of thirty times through the time loops.

It’s an admittedly gripping musical series about a misunderstood robot and his human lover on the run from the government. You love it as much as the rest of the world seems to, and while you admit, it’s a bit melodramatic, you can’t help but be swept up in the drama.

Unfortunately, “new episodes” will stop airing by next week. Star! News will say something about a romance gone wrong. You’ve never been gossipy enough to look into those rumors. Personal lives are meant to stay that way. Personal.

But then again, that’s always been your greatest flaw, hasn’t it?

Keeping to yourself. Not getting involved...always just watching. No matter what you do...no matter how much you learn...you can’t change.

You feel yourself trembling, like your own clockwork is jutting to a painful stop. The cogs within you are grinding themselves to gray dust. You have to stop this. You can’t think this way anymore.

_“NO MATTER WHAT, I WILL PERSEVERE. I WILL SUCCEED.”_

Mettaton’s whole-hearted statement to his love is loud enough to jump past the low volume setting. Loud enough to snap you back into a bleak reality. Loud enough to flood you with a painful acceptance.

You take a deep breath. Drop the remote and your cell so you can hug yourself tight, your nails digging into the skin of your arms. A heavy feeling settles into your stomach.

From the corner of your eyes, you catch sight of the pretty gold flowers and feel a certain ease thread through you. This, along with Mettaton's declarations is just enough to make you relax a bit.

“Thanks, Mettaton buddy." You say a bit fondly to the screen.

It’s just enough for you to turn off the television. It’s just enough for you to slip into a pair of worn boots, hissing a little when you shift your weight onto your wrapped right ankle. It’s just enough for you to don your sturdy anorak jacket. It’s just enough to let you grab your wallet, keys and helmet. It’’s just enough to lock the door behind you.

You walk with weighty step, and a grimace on your face.

But you refuse to look at the worn door with the dark whorls that probably hides your _never-been-seen_ neighbor.

The leaden feeling in your gut twists slightly, becoming tighter and tighter when you pass by the Not Welcome mat. It’s a strangely familiar feeling that crawls down your back and brings to mind cerulean flashes from the corner of your sight.

But still, you limp ahead without looking back. You will not become dependent on a mere thing of chance. You will not hinge your hope on a tiny, insignificant _anomaly_.

And despite that loneliness that threatens to consume you once more, the helplessness that swirls black through your heart...

You by yourself has to be enough.

* * *

 

You find yourself at the university’s biomedical library.

Your sweats are damp from the ride over and you have really bad helmet hair. Still, you manage to find your usual spot on the second highest floor. You’re a little skeptical as to why you’re here, but the urge to _do something_ is more powerful than that. Even if it’s a little bit of learning.

Generally speaking, studying has become the easiest thing for you. Eight timelines ( _maybe more like seven and a fraction_ ) have lead to a mastery of your third year material. The nursing program curriculum is a long, tiring road on which every new subject is based on something from the year before. It builds up and up, until you’re left with a slew of information that you can recall without much effort.

Study groups are more for the benefit of your friends than for you. So you dedicate your extra time to studying material beyond your third year routine. The timelines, however exhausting, have been taken full advantage of. You know several languages, including Spanish and American Sign Language. You can play the guitar better than before and have traveled to five out of the seven continents.

You’re quite the eclectic savant, and yet, despite it all...you’re still you. Still alone.

The sturdy mahogany book stacks run down the length of the room, creaking with the weight of tomes of biomedical volumes. Some of the spines are worn thin, bent and wrinkled with use. Others are still new, smelling of plastic and shining under the dim recessed lighting.

Here and there are small wooden desks that fit neatly in between the shelves and against the walls. You’re sitting at your favorite one, the natural light of the gloomy rainy day is just enough to give you the perfect illumination for the Advanced Monster Biology textbook you’re perusing.

At least, you were.

But the rain is mesmerizing as it strikes against the window. Your finger absently traces the pale patterns in the wood of the desk; your face is resting in the palm of your other hand.

Despite the earlier defiance, your thoughts still turn and turn in the direction of shattering glass and an unanswered note. You take stock of all the new things that have happened since then, and are woefully disappointed.

The weekend will most likely fade into a busy week of class and clinicals that you can predictably cruise through without much effort. It’s only the fresh thought of “Who Can I Help Save?” that keeps you sane at the thought.

Professor Alphys’ absence will start next week. Her classes will be taught by a substitute lecturer. This is the first time you’ve met Undyne and now you have vague idea as to why the professor will not be present. But she will come back in ten days, tired and sad. You could never quite work out why. But the professor was an intensely private person and you never felt enough prerogative to stick your nose in her business. Again personal lives are meant to be personal.

_(There’s a connection that sparks at the back of your mind...way, way back. Professor Alphys’ absence clicks along with the thought of Mettaton’s off-air schedule. You ignore it.)_

But there’s that feeling of being watched. The prickling on the back of your neck and the flashes of blue you seem to catch from the corner of your eye are very new. The days since the deviation had been peppered with these instances of paranoia, your breath catching when the sensation shifted from heavy to barely there in an instant.

Your reverie is interrupted when you hear the elevator doors open, frighteningly loud in the otherwise silent room. It’s hardly a large room, not enough to echo like the nicer library across campus would. But the clacking of the doors and the whir of the gears is enough to make your heart leap into your throat.

For a brief second, you feel a swirling of that same feeling from this morning. It drops heavy into your mind, making your stomach churn with a harrowing anxiety. But then it is gone, and you take this new uneasiness for an unwillingness to interact socially with anyone right now. This is supposed to be your haven. This floor had always been empty on this particular Sunday morning.

With a start, you realize this is another deviation and the golden hope that flowers in your heart sways painfully, dissipating the haze of nervousness like a mist in the sun.

You feel a little self conscious when you smooth down your sweats and wrinkled hoodie, knowing you put in no effort this morning. Expectation clings to you as closely as the raindrops do to the glass. Your hands are clammy again. You swallow thickly, peering hesitantly around the corner of the nearest book stack. You lean back the slightest bit in your chair, fingers curling into fists to stifle the emotion warring in you now.

The newest occupant of the floor seems to have a slow, shuffling gait against the white linoleum. You can’t see past the numerous book stacks, but you can definitely hear them making their way painstakingly loud. They seem to pause in front of the Monster Health section, because you can hear books being slid out from the shelf and pages being turned.

Your voice catches in your throat as you call out…

“H-hello?”

The lighting flickers for a bit.

There’s a dull thud, a strange tearing noise and then a very quiet howling. Your hair lifts a little, swaying in an out-of-nowhere breeze as the leaden feeling grows exponentially. You feel as if the world is whirling away, as if there are tendrils of something wrapping all around you, blue and calling.

And for a second, you swear that time has stopped and you are torn between a bone-deep relief and a heart-pounding fear. You don’t remember if you’re sitting on a chair or floating.

You blink, and the world is righted again. The rain is still soft. The lights are back to normal.

You can feel the hard edges of the chair against your thighs.

Numbly, you rise. You make your way cautiously towards where you had heard the new occupant. They are oddly silent.

When you turn the corner into the row of books, there is nobody.

“What the...?” You breathe.

The only thing out of place is the book on the ground, pages splayed out messily. There’s something sticking out of it.

As you approach, you realize there’s a frighteningly familiar crumpled piece of lined paper.

Your fingers shake so much as you crouch down to reach for it, that you miss on the first try. You manage to grasp it, crinkling it some more in your sweaty grasp.

There’s the fucking ridiculous glittery purple ink with your message on one side.

And on the other, in a splotchy blue writing…

**“Hi Neighbor. It’s about TIME we met.”**

You settle on the floor next to the fallen book, sitting on the dusty tiles. You lean back against the bookshelf, overwhelmed as you reread the note over and over. The hard edges of the shelves dig into your back, and it hurts a little, but it anchors you to a reality you’re not sure exists.

You don’t why, but you start laughing. The pun is so stupid. The message is so simple. But it all seems so hysterical. Eight fucking time loops, eight rides on a nightmarish merry-go round...and you’re laughing when you’re finally not alone.

You laugh until you cry. Your manic giggles devolve into hiccups, and you feel such a strange sense of relief. The tears that dot the note make the ink run a bit, and some fall to the floor. They reflect the warm recessed lighting, shining like gold.

But you can’t bring yourself to wipe them away.

* * *

 

The rain falls harder. It runs down his smooth skull, pooling in the divots that mark his bone. A few slip into his eye sockets and he stands with his head bent, bracing himself against the brick wall of the library. He doesn't know if the strange heated sensation he feels on his cheeks is from tears or something else, but the rain hides it well.

He doesn’t know why he doesn’t just confront her. Papyrus had always been the straightforward one. Sans has lived by the opposite methodology. He dealt in secrets and moved in shadows. He tore through space to survive through time.

But this human...she takes what she can and makes her own changes. It’s a bit frightening. He’s not alone, and despite his reservations, he’s moving.

Sans feels his hope flower a little larger, more a bloom than a bud now.

His SOUL is old. So old. The resets do nothing to his physical age, but his very core is fraying. It's already been cracked one too many times. He feels like it's barely being held together with the patience that seems to be his only redeeming quality. He is a creature made of dust and magic and sadness and a certain malice that's kept him alive until now. 

He hates himself so much, almost as much as he hates his dependency on her. She's become his new discovery. A strangely glinting light winking in the void of existence. But still, he reaches for her...still he plays these games with her because he wants to see this through. Whatever she is, whoever she is...she might just be his way out of this situation.

He's going to be selfish. And so, Sans expects many things from the anomaly.

* * *

You forgot to bring an umbrella. You laugh at the irony. You who should be able to predict the future had forgotten that it was raining...while it was raining.

Your smile is huge. You probably look like an idiot, grinning so widely when it’s a rainy day and finals week is approaching. But you can’t help it.

Everything looks sharper, clearer. Fresh. Every color is defined in detail, the drops against the leaves. The muddy verdant grass that had ruined your ankle the other day. The clouds, deep gray one side and glimmering silver in their linings. It’s all so marvelously blessed in your tired eyes.

Somehow, your jacket feels less restricting, Your backpack feels lighter.

Even the golden flowers that sway in the garden beds near the parking garage look friendly. You offer them a warm smile and a quaint little greeting as you pass them by.

You don’t notice when one of them returns your smile with one of their own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOLY CRAP. THANK YOU TO EVERYONE WHO READ THIS AND COMMENTED AND GAVE THIS THING A KUDOS. OMG. I DID NOT EXPECT THAT REACTION, ESPECIALLY WITH JUST TWO CHAPTERS OUT. AHHH WELL you may have seen somethings revealed in the comment string with Sinnabee, but no major spoilers were given.
> 
> Sans is hesitant. Reader is bracing herself for more shenanigans and holy crap, we welcome a new character into the fray.


	4. To Test Your Patients

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> oh crud..."don't assume, because you'll make an ass out of u and me...mostly me. " in which Snas makes a dangerous assumption, Reader is understandably upset although you don't know why, AND the title is an actual pun.
> 
> ALSO THE CHAPTER IN WHICH I CAN SQUEAL AND SAY I HAVE FUCKING FANART BY THE AMAZING SINNABEE. LIKE I NEVER EXPECTED IT AND HOOOLY SHIT IS IT AMAZING. ALSO, if you want to just talk to me about anything really, i'm over at underwhale-ming.tumblr.com, or my main blog gigiree.

_“WHY?! WHY DIDN’T YOU DO ANYTHING?!” She screams at you.  Her face is red. There are tears welling up in her bright eyes, her hair slipping out of it’s messy ponytail. Somehow, she looks younger than the lines around her mouth would signal._

_But she screams at you, and you can’t blame her for it. Even if it’s in the middle of the hospital waiting room...in front of so many people.  Her desperation and confusion and anger is so palpable, and you have to focus on the ugly upholstery of the chairs just to draw a line between her emotions and yours._

_You feel your heart ache, straining to DO SOMETHING. But it’s too late for that. So you accept all her emotions with an open heart. Let the pain consume you, because it is the very least you deserve._

_"I’m sorry. I’m not who you wanted me to be.” You whisper._

_And then you tear your elbow from her vice-like grip and you run._

_You hear her call your name. You hear her footsteps quick behind you. She’s fast._

_But you’re faster._

_Across the gravel pathway, past the parking lot. Your sneakers pound against the ground, deafening. You can still feel his gritty dust on your hands, even though you had washed them so many times. So you keep on running._

_You wish that maybe if you run fast enough, you can turn the world on its axis and back in time._

* * *

As time goes round, things become jaded and predictable. The days lose their lustre. It’s inevitable. The exception to this seems to be rooted in what you’ve chosen as a career.

No matter how much you may groan and complain with the rest of your peers about classes, you all look forward to clinicals.

You wake up at 4:30 AM in the morning. You don’t have to show up for another hour and a half, but you like the quiet that settles over the town this early. You like the inky empty sky before dawn, the soft whispers of wind that lovingly sing through your open window.

You like being the only one awake, sitting in your clean blue scrubs at your tiny dining table with a mug of hot coffee and a chipped plate with some slightly burnt toast with jam. You take your time, something you rarely feel comfortable with being stuck in this situation.

The note sits innocently in front of you, and you keep turning it over to read it while you chew slowly.

Three weeks later, and it still feels so hazy. The tearing sound and the wind and the book on the floor. But the happiness you feel is the only thing you are sure of. Just knowing that you’re not alone, that someone else out there understands is enough to buoy you forward. The joy threads tendrils of warmth through your chest, supporting the golden hope that blooms stronger.

The hour of leisure passes quietly and you head out, stuffing your stethoscope and notepad into  the large pockets of your scrubs.

You pause a bit in front of a familiar door, your feet shuffling on the ‘not welcome” mat. You heave a deep breath, and do the same thing you’ve done every morning since the library incident.

You knock a little rhythm on the smooth wood.

Today it’s going to be Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.

Your knuckles are a little sore from the endeavour and you don’t expect anyone to answer, but the little notes are gentle and your slight impatience with your _Time-buddy_ is starting to worry you. So you don’t care much if you’re waking them up. They’ve had you walking on pins and needles this whole time. There’s a heady anticipation for a future encounter winding you up taut and tight.

The leaden feeling in your gut settles familiar-like and comfortable now. It still makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand, but there’s a warmth there you hadn’t realized before. It almost beckons, and you feel yourself step closer.

You’re not entirely sure what prompts you to do it, but you feel a little rude just knocking and walking away, today of all days. So you heave another sigh and lay your palm flat up against the door.

You’re so nervous, your heartbeat moves steadily, rushing in your ears and you close your eyes to settle into a calmer state. Your head feels so hazy, and you let it fall forward onto the wood with a dull thud. It’s blessedly cool against your flushed face.

It takes a while for your voice to work, but it eventually does.

“I..it’s okay, neighbor. Knowing that you’re there...that I’m not alone anymore...that’s just enough. I’m still really scared...but I...just...thanks.”

You slowly peel yourself away, feeling a little melancholy at the silence that answers your impromptu confession. But you’re so tired...and there’s a person on the other end of this strange communication. You’d never once considered how they might feel. Maybe they don’t really want to meet you. Maybe they have difficulty interacting with others. Maybe you’ve stumbled upon an existence they never wanted questioned...who were you to push for contact?

The guilt of that thought is enough to make your stomach churn.

“ _I’m_ _sorry_.” You mutter, doubting they’d even be listening.

You lift your head and hand from the door, sliding your fingers across the grooves as though reluctant to let go. And you pick up the pieces of your sadness, the golden hope folds its petals against the dullness of your mood.

* * *

He’s never liked early mornings. Even before the whole time looping crap in the Underground, the start of the day was always the most uninspiring. The best feeling in the world always seemed to be when he would get up before he had to wake, and the clock would show he had an extra hour of sleep.

Now it’s a whole other matter entirely.

He hasn’t confronted her yet. He’s invested too much of what’s left in him to face disappointment.

But she’s so stubborn. She’s clinging onto his existence with an intensity as searing as his. She is gentle and dependable in her knocks. Every morning since he returned the note has been marked with strange little rhythms tapping on his front door.

It’s never enough to wake the other residents of the hall...it’s just enough to let him know she’s there. It’s just enough to let him know that she’s waiting for something.

But he’s never answered the door and he’s never done much but sit on his bed and listen to the faint _rap tap tap_. His phalanges unconsciously tap along, the hard bone muffled against the springy mattress. Hand splayed out, he wonders if he’s reaching for something highly improbable...but still, his magic roils with expectation and he accompanies her tune of stars.

Today though, it’s not just enough to sit and listen.

Something is very hesitant in her tune today. It’s sad and wishful.

He shuffles across into his living room when he hears the second knock. He stops a few feet from the door, his fingers trembling just a few inches from the brass knob.

But it’s not enough...not yet.

He hears a dull thud, and guesses that she’s leaning her forehead against his door.

And he hears her voice, quiet and earnest.

“...Knowing that you’re there...that I’m not alone anymore...that’s just enough…”

Something shifts in him, and he doesn’t know why, but the magic stop roiling. It settles into a steady thrumming, and he feels so exhausted. He’s so confused.

What is he expecting? A salvation? A person to break this loop? Someone with more strength in them than he has?

Maybe all of that and more.

She’s an unsung hero after all...a normal person wouldn’t go out of their way to save a monster child...a normal person wouldn’t be remembering the loops in the first place.

He feels his air intake stutter through his nasal concha. It feels so strange. He doesn’t have to breathe. Not really. But he likes the appearance of it. The minimal effort it takes, the rush of air into the dead space between his bones is nice...so it’s really something when her words stop his breathing.

It’s really something when he ever so softly lays his head against his door, reciprocating her action. He imagines her warmth beyond the wood, he lays his hand against the wood, and lets his bone gouge quietly into it to anchor him into a blessed reality.

He’s not alone. He’s not alone.

Expectations are still present. She’s just too earnest for him not to have them there. She’s sealed her own status in his mind, her actions twisting to make his image of her cast in iron. It’s because of her persistence that he makes this mistake. It’s because of her knocking that he makes a dangerous assumption, with his head pressed against the door.

She must have a very determined SOUL indeed.

His hope blooms full and golden, even as he hears her whispered apology.

He closes his eyes, and imagines that a red, red soul beats behind his door.

* * *

 

The ride over is fairly innocuous, no clockwork needed until later in the day. It’s raining again and your jacket is thick enough to keep your scrubs dry. The same impressions flash past you , but you pay them no mind.

You sift through your many memories of this particular April day, listing off which patients should have your attention first and at what times throughout the shift. The sharp, sterile smell of the hospital stings your nose a bit as your step through the sliding glass doors, still thinking.

_(Wonderfully annoying deviation notwithstanding, you sincerely don’t want any other changes today. Not when there are others that count on you to work within the timeline.)_

You step into the check-in desk at the back of the Urgent Care waiting room thirty minutes before the shift starts. You slip off your jacket and backpack and shove them under the pale wooden counter that rings the front of the desk. You take a moment to glance around at the sea green walls and potted plants meant to provide a relaxing atmosphere. There is seating of all shapes and sizes, designed for inclusive access of different body types. The television is muted, but there’s a popular monster morning talk show playing.

A fierce sense of pride fills you when you realize just how much effort the institution had put into this whole “monster inclusion” endeavor.

The rest of your classmates have just barely begun to trickle in through the door, shuffling tiredly with coffee and tea in hand.

You can’t blame them, really. It took you a few loops to get down your sleeping schedule. It mattered mostly because of the work you would be doing, be it giving an intramuscular injection or measuring the health of someone’s SOUL.

Yes, SOUL. Even seven years after the arrival monsters, it’s still a little hard to wrap your head around the concept. The fact that magic is no longer a fairytale and that there _is_ a way for it to co-exist with science amazes you.

The university hospital is as progressive as it is old. It prides itself on being an institution that embraced the practical uses of magic without fear. The researchers wasted no time in befriending the scientifically inclined monsters. Just months after the barrier broke, they opened up a new school for the study of “Magic Medicine”. The approach uses a combination of well-researched magical techniques and good old fashioned human medicine to treat patients from all walks of life.

And again, here, clockwork means everything. It can mean a dead patient or one that walks out alive. You prefer to think of every new clinical shift as an opportunity. The loops have lead to predictable situations and given you a not very welcome reputation…

_“Hey, Dark Cloud!”_

The vaguely nasally, slightly Surfer-dude inflection of the name is all too familiar. You have to suppress a groan of extreme distaste that threatens to slip from your clenched teeth. As much as you love these early mornings, it’s way too early for _that_.

You’re only three weeks into this timeline, and already you’ve gained the dreaded “Dark Cloud” reputation...again. _No good deed goes unpunished_ seems to be true.

You turn towards the source of your nickname, slapping a strained smile on your face as you find Dr. Aaron Muscles leaning casually over the counter.

_(No, really. That’s his name. You looked at the roster just to make sure.)_

His long horsey face is stretched into a teasing grin from behind his strangely placed half-moon spectacles. It’s all a bit at odds with the wavy, golden hair that falls into his eyes. The sinew in his thick neck moves underneath a glistening brown layer of short fur as he suppresses his laughter.

You feel a pang of pity for his white doctor’s coat when he makes a show of flexing his biceps. The poor fabric is under so much strain, you wonder if it’ll make it through the day.

His horsey laugh is irritating, but it’s not so much that as the nickname that pierces through your store of patience. There are very few monickers that you dislike and you’ve had your fair share given to you. (Your _chosen one of “Bee” was a gift from some jerks in high school, after all.)_ But perhaps the name Dark Cloud is a bit too much.

In a medical setting, the healthcare providers have their own set of superstitions. It’s not odd. Practically every group has some. The most embarrassing is that of the Dark Cloud...the caregiver whose mere presence brings bad luck and lots of dead or near dead patients.

And because of your habit of being just in the right vicinity before a patient you knew from past time loops would start coding, you were crowned this shift’s portender of death. Granted, most of the cases ended up with patients who were stabilized, but your quick actions were never taken as a good sign.

Still, Dr. Aaron Muscles is your superior, and you always afford him the barest respect. You grimace when his grin opens wider, and you can see something like straw or grass peeking from beneath his upper llp.

“H-hey, Dr. Muscles. It’s a great day to save lives, right?” You force out, slapping an awkward smile across your face. You cringe. You hope he doesn’t notice the unintentional pun.  Your slip-up could very well be offensive.

But your luck has never been very good. He laughs hard, his fishy tail swishing loudly against the white tiles of the hospital floor.

“HAY?! That’s a good one, Darky. I need to remember it.” He gives a faint little whinny, and then waves goodbye, floating down the hall behind you.

You slump forward, resting your head on the counter.Your hair falls around you, giving you a sweet combination of warmth and reprieve from the harsh white lighting. You groan, exhaustion already setting in before the day has even started. The expectation of meeting your neighbor has had you tense these past weeks. Your patience is wearing thin, so you’ll take this moment alone.

Your rest is disturbed by an audible slapping noise and a sharp stinging sensation across your back.

You straighten up with a yelp, clapping your hands over your mouth when you receive a sharp glare from the head nurse filling out charts in the corner of the station. Your surprise is quickly overwhelmed by your growing annoyance. You can’t deal right now, and you brush back the hair from your eyes so you can pass on the glare to your assailant.

“Seriously, Lindsey? You got me in trouble.” You say in angry whispers, rubbing at your right shoulder where the impact had been the hardest.

Lindsey merely giggles, tying back her cloud of curly hair as you growl at her.

“Morning Bee. You look awful. Didn’t get your coffee yet?” She singsongs, her friendly brown eyes crinkling into an easy smile. Despite the warmth in her expression, there’s a tightness to her brow that belies her worry for you.

Your irritation fades a little. Lindsey is perhaps your closest friend in the program. You’ve known her for years. She’s only playing with you because she doesn’t like to see you so sad….actually, that seems to be her modus operandi. She doesn’t like seeing anyone sad, especially friends or patients. She just has very...unorthodox ways of showing it.

Practice makes perfect though, and you’ve been through this shift enough times to soften your smile and nod a little.

She still seems a little hesitant, but to your relief, the shift is starting.

The head nurse’s gravelly voice cuts through the low chatter of the congregated students and you quickly make your way round the counter to join Lindsey and the others. She makes a show of threading her arm through yours, and squeezing gently as if to say “I’m here.”

Even after all these time loops, the simplicity of the gesture is enough to flood your heart with warmth. The gentle thudding that keeps you going seems to grow steadier...less erratic.

You squeeze back, zoning out as the head nurse gives out assignments because you already know what yours is.

“____!”

Your name takes a while to register. You’re so used to “Bee” by know, that it feels a little misplaced. Not bad...just off somehow. But it’s the name you were born with, and however you may feel about it, doesn’t change that fact.

“Yes M’am.” You stumble out, quickly unthreading your arm from Lindsey’s and crossing it with your other one a bit defensively. Your hoist your chin up and manage to look somewhat professional.

Her tight expression never lets up in the slightest, and disappointment curls heavy in your stomach.

“You’ll be taking vitals and history for any new patients we see today. Stay at the station while we wait for opening time.”

The tension is let loose, and you let your arms fall to your sides in relief. Today should be a fairly easy day. You vaguely recall the visitors today and know which ones to send straight to the emergency room. It’ll be okay. Routine...no deviations...however much you may wish for one.

“Okay...understood.” You answer back politely, biting back acerbic replies about her “testing your patience” and not “patients”.

The rest of the assignments are given, and you bid a reluctant “see you later” to Lindsey as she heads off to the Intensive Care Unit to check on in-house patients.

The sun slowly rises. The darkness of the sky gives way easily to a pearly gray morning. The rain drizzles softly against the glass doors of the entrance, and already you’ve seen ten or so patients and taken their vitals. You wait at the station, filling out paperwork as the kind secretary next to you checks in new visitors.

You watch, half in fascination, when her rabbit ears perk up at meeting a kind person. Her voice is full of “bounce”, notes rising and falling with her excitement. She gets especially excited with other monster patients or new babies. You watch her fall over herself trying to check in a human mother with her feverish infant, and you know she’s bound to make some type of mistake when she gets so worked up.

You grow a little hopeful when she fills out the case file, but an actual nurse takes in the case, and you’re left sitting in the back of the station with only bland old paperwork.

The cheap clock on the beige wall behind you marks 9:00 A.M. eventually, and that’s when it happens.

The deviation you had been hoping for all along.

The general hum of the waiting room chatter goes quiet.

A slight shuffling announces the new patient. A large shadow obscures the overhead lighting a little, but you pay it no mind. It always happens that way. You’re too busy scrawling across some observational notes on a previous patient’s file to notice.

All you hear is Mrs. Lola’s usually steady voice pitch higher, nearly squeaking when she falls over herself to ask about the new patient checking in.

“Oh dear...oh my…”

From the corner of your eye, you see her adorably fumbling for her round glasses hanging from a chain around her neck. She’s obviously a little flustered, and she’s dropped a few of her pens onto the desk scrambling for a blank patient history sheet.

There’s a rich, low chuckle and something about it sends a frisson of anticipation down your spine. The voice is certainly nice, you chide yourself, but it’s nothing to get worked up over.

Stubbornly, you cling to your sense of responsibility and keep on scrawling your notes.

“sorry. i would lend you a hand, but i kinda need one myself.”

You hear Mrs. Lola’s sharp little gasp as she clutches her chest in panic. You finally look up and behind you. The processes in your brain grind to a shrieking halt, the cogs that make you up shudder with your surprise. The golden hope sways precariously, still closed off from this morning’s disappointment.

You can hardly breathe, because the first thing you notice is blue. Bright blue that fades into thick creamy fur ringing the hood of a jacket. The blue is familiar, and somehow you feel another chill crawling down your back...the leaden feeling is absent...and that is what brings you back down from your initial shock.

Your lesser shock is started when you notice that the person wearing the hoodie is a walking skeleton. A living, breathing (no really, his shoulders are moving up and down), skeleton that is holding his left arm with his right...it’s disconnected, completely. His jacket is draped over him, his arms are not in the sleeves. Not even the one that’s still attached.

There’s red smeared across the visible socket joint in his white shortsleeve shirt and some at the end of the humerus that would connect to the shoulder.

You’ve seen your fair share of strange monsters. You’ve seen your fair share of grotesque injuries, both human and not. But this is something entirely too bizarre to fully be grossed out by. There’s something surreal about it all, because this is the first skeleton monster you’ve ever seen, but not the first dislocated arm you’ve encountered.

And he seems to be just fine. His skull is contorted (how is that even possible) into an expression of absolute delight. The large grin that rests on his face is sincere and strained all at once. You wonder how it’s possible, but what’s even stranger is that the happiness seems to cut into his eyes, crinkling the edges of the sockets in the same way pudgy cheeks might.

And then there’s his eyes. A soft inky emptiness, save for the slight pinpricks of white light that move just like pupils might.

He doesn’t notice your opened-mouthed scrutiny. He’s too busy laughing at Mrs. Lola’s overzealous inquiries about his visit. He’s holding his arm casually, occasionally waving it around as a prop to make a point.  You don’t know if he’s in pain or not and you don’t know what kind of damage he’s taken. Still, his sense of humor in the face of injury is commendable.

“Oh my word! Oh, I’m sorry for the delay!.”

You have to wonder if it’s because of the severity of the case or if this monster is someone she knows and is granting a special favor.

She quickly gathers up a new file, hastily writes whatever his name is on the folder. It seems she does know him since you never recalled her asking for it.

And finally...finally you’re pulled into the fray. She smiles at you with all the warmth of a grandmother and you know you’re in for a... bad?... weird? ...whatever time.

“Bee sweetie, would you Bee a dear and take this young man’s vitals, please?”

You freeze in your chair, a flood of embarrassment washes over you as you notice the skeleton’s grin grows impossibly wide. Something about it is unwelcoming, but he laughs again with that nicely rolling chuckle of his, and the irritation from the morning comes back in full swing.

You grit your teeth, and stand stiffly, reaching for the manila folder Mrs. Lola is offering.

You don’t look at her really. You just flash her a nervous smile when she thanks you, and you round the counter in a few strides.

You thumb through the folder a bit until you find yourself in front of the patient. He looks sturdy...you have to wonder how a compilation of bones manages to fill out the jacket and black sweatpants he’s wearing. You decide to explain it away with the same answer you always do when it comes to monsters...Magic. You feel a little snicker of disbelief bubble in your throat when you see that his bony feet are shuffling in a pair of pink house slippers.

_‘Oh my god...what am I getting myself into?’_

But your irritation wars with your professionalism and your excitement. You have no expectations for now, and you’ll do your best to provide the care needed. So as protocol demands, you smile up at him. You inwardly grumble. Adult monsters are always so damn tall and even the shortest ones are a few inches above your head.

He’s no exception. Your head barely reaches his nasal concha, and you have to tilt your head back to fully look him in the eyes.

“My name is Bee. I’m a third year nursing student fully qualified to take your vitals. Please follow me to the equipment room.”

You turn the corner into the right wing hall, walking past the green walls and the numbered doors with a very resolute pace. You mentally congratulate yourself on your professionalism. Your steps are light. His are heavy and shuffling. They make a pleasing white noise that soothes your excitement some.

His voice breaks your thought.

“i’ m not one to make a buzz, but i think your name tag says something other than bee on it, kid. ”

You stop in the hallway, your back is taut with realization.

“Oh shoot...I’m sorry. I messed up.” You smile up at him apologetically, a little irritated that he pushed the subject. “My name’s _____. Most people just call me Bee, but whatever you’re more comfortable with is fine.”

And quickly, for a distraction, you start thumbing through his file, glancing at the name scrawled on the tab.

“it’s nice to meet you bee, the name’s-”

“Snas.” You read out loud before he can finish.

Mortification rushes through you when you realize you’ve interrupted him, and you wonder how you’re not a pile of ashes in the moment with all these emotions wreaking havoc on your nervous system. You can swear your neurons are frying themselves, too keyed up to want to keep working.

“ah...yeah...sure, it’s short for snazzy.”

His tone is leisurely, but the pinpricks of light in his eyes have dimmed considerably. And you might just be seeing things, but they’ve contracted to mere dots. The awkwardness is stifling in the empty hall.

“Oh... Snazzy then?” You clarify.

“sure...snazzy the skeleton. that’s the name.”

His smile is literally frozen. You imagine that if you were to try and move it, it wouldn’t budge an inch. You feel all your mistakes crawling up your back, your good bedside manner reputation is crumbling before your very eyes.

“Okay then, sir. Would you prefer snas, or snazzy?”

“whichever one, kid.”

You give a strained little laugh, mentally calling yourself all kinds of a fool. You clutch the folder to your chest, and finally reach the room you’re looking for.

The wooden door is plastered with all kinds of colorful posters, some about cold prevention and others about having a yearly SOUL check up.

“Please have a seat, Mr. Snas. ” You gesture towards the patient bench at the end of the room.

He settles on it with a grace you wouldn’t have pictured coming from someone who shuffles in slippers. But he does it so easily, the clean wax paper crinkling beneath him. He’s still holding his arm, and has that same smile on his face.

You turn to the small sink wedged on the wall opposite the door. You have to maneuver yourself around his slippers and around the bulky equipment that takes up one half of the small room.

As you wash your hands, you don’t notice the smile soften into something a little more melancholy as he stares at your back.

You don’t notice him clutch at his arm, eyes dimming with a disappointment he’s not aware is creeping over him.

His expression is pieced back together by the time you’ve rinsed off the soap suds in warm water and slipped on some non-latex gloves.

You address him patiently, pen at the ready to note down anything he says about his physical health.

“So why have you come here today, Mr. Snas.”

You catch him grimace a bit, but you chalk up to discomfort.

He shrugs blithely, eyes sliding over to look at his disconnecting arm.

“don’t know, Bee.” His smile grows wide again. “ i mean, seeing as my left arm is off, i think i’m all right now.

The distant echo of a rim shot sounds in the back of your head. The corner of your mouth twitches, but you stifle it. You are determined not to be unprofessional today.

“No sir, I mean...what happened? W-why is your arm off?” You ask, trepidation lacing your tone.

“hmm. good question. See, i was walking across the street. mindin’ my own business, when out of nowhere, this car hit me.”

Your heart jumps into your throat. It blocks your breath. You see spots of black in your vision. Your fingernails dig into your palm, and you know you’ve torn through your glove when you feel the sharp pain. This can’t be a coincidence...it just can’t be..

And then he drops his smile, and looks at you with concern.

“you okay there kid? you look pretty pale.”

(You're not sure how he has time to, but he picks up the bucket in the corner of the room and lifts it up as he speaks.) This time you do snort a little but....

Professional. Be professional. Your patient needs you. _Persevere_.

“I uh...I’m good sorry. I was just thinking.” You say breathlessly. “Did you manage to get the person’s license number? Did you report this to the police?”

He waves away your concern by moving his right arm in the air between you two.

“it’s fine. they apologized. gotta say, their attitude was pretty disarming. nice human couple.”

The other corner of your mouth twitches. You feel your laughter threatening to burst, but you reign it and think of a rainy intersection with golden flowers in a corner.

You feel the laughter leach away, leaving you tired and apathetic.

You gesture towards his sleeves, and he obliges easily enough, letting the heavy jacket fall behind him. You approach him, silently asking for permission before you grasp his left arm in your hands.

You vaguely note that he smells kind of sweet and strange, like petrichor or static before a thunderstorm. Your fingers hover over his detached arm, hesitating. You feel like you might be invading something very personal, and the tension between you two is palpable. There’s also an unfamiliar humming sound...it comes from his vicinity, and you feel a little heavy before the sensation fades away.

Finally, you pick it up. It’s all so strange. It's much warmer than expected. His bone is creamy white, slightly thicker and more malleable than human bone. It’s also fairly solid, and you can’t see any hollowness where marrow and blood vessels would usually run through. You lay aside the limb gently in his lap, and you move your examination to his shoulder.

You examine the area gently, only touching occasionally at the bulbous epiphysis at the end of his humerus. The socket in his shoulder is also coated with red, and it still seems wet. You gently prod the area, and sigh in relief when it seems he feels no discomfort.

“And it seems you’ve stifled your bleeding. How long were you bleeding out for?”

He laughs again, and you find yourself getting slightly annoyed and you don’t know why, but you feel so much worse than before. Disappointment rattles through you, you can hardly pull yourself out of this mess of a gray life and now it’s affecting your work...oh god.

“bleeding? kid, i’m a skeleton. this stuff’s ketchup. though i must condiment you on your thorough examination.”

You stiffen, incredulous at the sheer absurdity of the situation. The levity with which this deviation is being handled. You don't know what to do. Is this a normal thing? Does ketchup have healing properties for skeleton injuries? Your studies never covered this.

You release air sharply through your nose, judgement tingling your voice.

"Mr.Snas...did you...smear ketchup over your injury on purpose?"

"yep. i  _red_ somewhere that ketchup makes a great antibiotic."

"W-why would you..why?" Is all you can get out, shock lacing up your vocal cords.

He merely shrugs and you have no idea how to react. So you keep going down the sheet, asking the usual questions.

“On a scale of 1 to 10, rate the pain?” You plow on, in full clinical mode now. Curiosity is carrying you through this encounter, and it is the best thing you have at your disposal. “1 is bearable and 10 would be something that affects your ability to function.”

"seems like a 10, judging by your expression. are my jokes really that bad?" He questions blithely.

You just level a glare at him, your patience stretched to the max. What little amusement you may have felt is vanishing fast.

He sighs.

“can you give me an example, kid? I know humans don’t exactly giggle when their arm’s detached.”

His question is very reasonable. And you find his tone to be more even, less silly. He’s settled down, and you can see it in his dull expression. The smile is there, but it’s lazy. More a fixture than an indication of joy.

You feel a little stab of disappointment, and push it down to the drain where your laughter and excitement went. You can barely bring it back for the sake of this new encounter, and you wonder if you’ve finally been broken.

“Apologies Mr. Snas. 1 is like...a pinch perhaps? And 10 would be like a fracture in your SOUL.”

Monster pain scales were weird as all hell, but with enough practice you’d come to understand how to explain these things.

“oh...well then, that’s easy. One.”

His voice is even more subdued, and the bile rises in your throat when you remember someone else you’ve disappointed with such cold treatment. You can’t let it end like this. You can’t be so cruel to someone innocently involved in your cruel existence. He knows nothing. He is your patient. Make it right. _Laugh_ , dammit.

“Well Mr. snas, the doctor will be in in after this. You’re going to have to help him _ketchup_ to the situation. The more info he has, the more _arm-ed_ he’ll be for your treatment. I _finger_ I’d better go out on a _limb_ here and say you’re not an emergency case.”

You swear that the humming from him grows louder. It seems to resonate within him, lighting up his eyes brightly and his grin grows back to the way it was in the lobby. He’s practically beaming in all sense of the word and he’s looking at you like you’ve given him the world.

A few puns can’t have done that, can they?

“Ah, e-excuse me. I uh..have to start the thingy.”

“don’t let me stop ya’. go ahead and start the thingy.” He laughs lightly, nodding towards the wall where the machine rests.

You feel the heat rise to your cheeks, and your clear your throat as you stride across the room to fiddle with the SOUL stat check machine.

An ingenious invention made by none other than the brilliant Professor Alphys herself, it had helped diagnose and treat both monsters and humans. The SOUL had added a whole new dimension to health and you were giddy every time you got to use it, even if for a routine vitals session.

The whir of the machine was loud, but not uncomfortably so, but you notice your patient eyeing it with extreme distaste...and maybe fear?

You’re not sure, but it’s not the first time you’ve seen a patient who’s never had their SOUL checked by the machine before. Usually there’s another fully-degreed nurse to help out with this, but the roster was full today and you know there’s going to be no one available to help you.

"Ah, please don't worry Mr. Snas. It's perfectly safe. Here, let me show you!" You offer with a kind smile.

You deftly snap the cuff around your upper left arm, much like a blood pressure cuff, and then proceed to close your eyes, and take a deep calming breath. You flip the oh so familiar switch on the metal panel.

You feel a slight draining sensation. This is the first time you’ve ever done it on yourself. So you’re a little wary of the results. Still, it’s kind of exciting because the LED screen flashes numbers in quick succession, and finally settles into your values. The numbers are a bright red on a black backdrop, blocky and telling.

 

> **HP** : **10**   **LV** : **1**   **DF** : **12**   **AT: 5**   **Determination value** : **0** . **000003**

You take off the cuff **,** and rub out your arm a bit **.**

The numbers are the same as before. Nothing’s changed. It never does. You sigh a bit dejectedly at your abnormally low DETERMINATION. It’s the only thing wrong, but you’ve never really understood why that one value was so important. The monsters seemed to prize it highly, but you never put much thought into why.

But there...the procedure was easy peasy, and hopefully Snas wasn’t too freaked out by the whole affair.

You turn to look at your patient, but he seems distraught by something. He is absolutely still, and you can feel a veritable vibrating coming from his direction. The light from his eyes is nearly extinguished, and you feel yourself quake as you look at him. You’re being pulled down a dark inky void, your sadness spreading tendrils out to your field of golden hope, choking it.

His emotions are heavy and this feeling of disappointment is all too familiar...and there’s no mistaking it...this disappointment is all for you.

(You apologize to him over and over in your head. You don’t know why.)

“S-snas, is everything o-okay?”

Silence...and then a distinct popping noise fills the room. It cuts through the tension like a knife through flesh. A clean cut, no damage done.

You blink, still reeling from the heady sensation of disappointment that had come from seemingly nowhere.

He’s smiling again, and his arm...his arm is back in place, and fully functional as he slides it easily into his jacket sleeve. He jumps off the patient bench with ease, as if he hadn’t just popped back an entire limb.

“huh...would you look at that? seems like i’m such a numbskull, i forgot i could do that. Sorry, kid.”

He shrugs, but something tells you that not everything’s okay. The vestiges of your control are fraying, but you hold yourself together through sheer effort.

“AH. That’s great! I’m so glad you’re okay!” is what you want to say, but you’re incapable of speech right now.

Instead all that comes out is a strange squeaking sound, like the air being let out of a tire.

“well...it’s been a real _ribdiculously_ fun time kid, but i gotta head out. take care of yourself.”

And then he’s out the room before you even have a chance to say goodbye. The door closes shut with a muffled thud, and you have to lean against it because your legs are shaking so much and you have no idea what just happened.

For the second time this month, you laugh until you cry.

* * *

The hallway is empty. He’s made sure of it.

He’s so tired and torn and sad.  He hadn't planned for this. In his head, the encounter would have gone so much smoother. He would have opened up with a snappy one liner, and you would have laughed and then conversation would have flowed. He would have confessed to popping out his arm himself, on purpose ,and covering it in ketchup just to get admitted earlier by you. Just to get a chance to spill everything and find a SOUL worth moving forward with. someone who could break the loops...

But everything had gone so wrong from the very start. You wouldn't look at him, not even once, at the front desk. Not until you'd been forced to interact. If he hadn't known any better, he might have thought you hated monsters. And you were different, so different from the gentle earnest neighbor that knocked on his door and cried at his note.

He could have blamed it on a bad day, but your tiredness ran deep. Something had gone wrong. His jokes kept missing, the flustered secretary seemed to recognize him all too well, and still she messed up his name.

And then, you had smiled and told those puns. He thought things could be salvaged.

Until he saw your stats.

He hadn’t meant it...hadn’t meant to let you feel all of that crap. He hadn’t meant to make you feel so worthless, without even saying a word. His fraying soul had lashed out so angrily. the sheer presence of the numbers...that sub 1 DETERMINATION value had been so low...you truly were an anomaly...just not the one he had been hoping you could be. DETERMINATION was everything in this experience...everything he couldn’t wield and everything you apparently didn’t have. But it wasn’t your fault.

He had seen the shattered look in your eyes, the blind sided look of betrayal that had crossed your face. The acceptance of all his sentiment, taking it in eagerly as if you couldn’t get enough of it...as if you deserved it.

The hallway is still empty. He checks again just to make sure. That’s good.

He can hear your faint sobs, each hitching breath lancing pain through his own chest because this is his fault.

It’s all his fault, but no matter that, the disappointment roils through him. Even as he leans his head against the door and whispers-

“ _i’m_ _sorry, kid_.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ouch. I PROMISE YOU IT LIGHTENS UP. kinda. BUT mr. Snas ain't done yet. Neither are you.
> 
> @SINABEE'S FAN-FUDGIN-TASTIC MONSTER KID IN HIS RAIN COAT: http://sinnabee.tumblr.com/post/142999143072/super-beautiful-gigiree-wrote-such-super-beautiful
> 
> HER COVER ART FOR THE PLAYLIST SHE MADE (AMAAZING): http://sinnabee.tumblr.com/post/143151835072/a-playlist-cover-for-a-playlist-for-gigiree-that
> 
> THE PLAYLIST ITSELF: http://8tracks.com/sinnabee217/i-don-t-want-to-start-all-over
> 
> THIS AMAZING GIF WITH CLUES AS TO THE FUTURE ROUTE OF THIS STORY: http://sinnabee.tumblr.com/post/143366908177/okay-this-is-really-really-cool-made-a-gif
> 
> Something that is slightly spoilerish in a stream, but just really funny stuff that might come up later: http://sinnabee.tumblr.com/post/143187250572/stream-art-i-forgot-to-post-the-main-image-for
> 
> PLEASE GO LOOK AT HER ART, IT'S LIKE REALLY AMAZING AND SHE'S JUST SO SWEET AND KIND AND I CAN'T BELIEVE THIS STORY HAS FANART BECAUSE OF HER


	5. To Share A-Latte

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which you have a daily visitor and you work as a barista because nursing school ain't cheap.
> 
> THANK YOU TO SINNABEE FOR THE PUNS AND THAT LAST SCENE, OH BOY. WHATEVER THIS STORY TURNS OUT TO BE, BLAME PARTIALLY ON HER. ALSO VISIT HER TUMBLRRRR...LOTS OF NICE GORGEOUS ART.
> 
> THANK YOU TO EVERYONE WHO LEFT A KUDOS OR COMMENT OR JUST READ THIS THING, OMGGGG OVER A 1000 HITS. LET ME DIE IN PEACE.

Despite your frugality, there is still the fact that you are paying for most of your expenses yourself. You rely on the financial aid for your tuition, but that’s barely enough to cover books and supplies for your program.

 

So it’s how you ended up with a part-time job added to your list of accomplishments. You’re a barista at the Bean Hole. It’s a quaint, little coffee shop with adorable pinewood round tables and plush maroon chairs. It’s marked by the dog rose vines climbing over a delicate white trellis, covering half of the wide glass windows and painting the inside with a verdant hue.

 

It rests smack dab in the middle of New Town, closer to the university than your apartment is. You’ve been there for two and a half years now _(time loops need not apply)_ , having gotten the job your freshman year.

 

Perhaps the hardest part of working here is showing your customers a happy face all the time. Professionalism here is a smile with service, not as calm or serious as working at the hospital.

Thankfully, the pay is good and the shifts are flexible enough that you can work around your ridiculous third year schedule of clinicals and classes. It gets easier with every loop, mostly because you don’t have to study as much.

 

And the customers are usually college kids who come in for studying fuel or working adults who are too tired to do much but grumble out an uncomplicated order. It doesn’t matter if they’re human or monster, the everyday humdrum of busy lives is exhausting. So you’re sympathetic to their plight, patiently clarifying orders.

 

Still, the job is fast paced. In between taking orders, making drinks, and fending off the matchmaking tendencies of your co-worker Catherine, a shift can quickly become exhausting.  The loops make things predictable enough, so you consciously change your actions every time to make your day change. At least as much with job policy indicating that you should always address customers with-

 

“Hello today. Welcome to the Bean Hole. What can I get **_YOU_ **!?”

 

And when you say change it up, you don’t mean braying that last word so loudly you sound like a horse with their tail end stuck in a woodchipper. You don’t mean pointing your finger as your next customer comes to the counter, nearly jabbing him in the face. You search your memories fast and blurred, and nothing can explain why _he’s_ in front of you right now, staring at you with that same wide grin digging cheekily into his eye sockets.

 

“yep...and then it goes v, w, x, y, z.”

 

The light in his eyes is bright, and you wonder where all that disappointment from yesterday went. He’s normal. You can’t feel anything really...nothing but an intense roiling amalgamation of curiosity, excitement and irritation. But honestly, that’s all you...it makes your stomach twist and you wonder if having that slice of vanilla cake earlier was a good idea.

 

You swallow thickly, ignoring Catherine’s curious glances from across the kitchenette. You bring down your finger, muttering a quick apology without looking at him directly.

 

His phalanges are tapping a steady rhythm against the cherry wood counter, click clacking a bit intimidatingly. He gives you a deep, rolling chuckle. The smile edges further into his eyes...it looks good on him.

 

“you okay there kid? am i _mocha-ing_ you uncomfortable?”

 

You have to blink a few times before you can compose yourself. He really does have a nice tone...as smooth and dark as the imported coffee that gives this place that distinct, sharp aroma.

 

“N-no...sorry...it’s just...uhhh...h-hi.”

 

He tucks his hands into the deep pockets of his blue jacket. He’s wearing another set of gym pants today, still black but with a bold white stripe running down the length of them.

 

It’s a shift in everything you know and you really, really don’t know if you like this one or not. Your _never-been-seen_ neighbor was something warm and heavy...a comforting presence in a gray, swirling void of repeating patterns. This guy on the other hand is unpredictable...you’re teetering on a cliff’s edge, clutching to what’s left of your golden hope with clammy fingers.

 

Or actually, you’re clutching the hem of your green apron...the canvas cloth is twisted in your grasp and Snas’ smile seems to wane a bit.

“hey there, kid? how you _bean_?” He asks.

 

This time, you’re so nervous that the joke throws you off kilter. You give a forced little laugh, something that sounds more like nails across a chalkboard than actual mirth. He doesn’t seem to notice though.

 

If anything, he slumps further down into his jacket, the fur of his hood coming up to crest around his lower skull. You think he looks relieved for some reason.

 

“Ahh...good. I’m  good...Snas..Snazzy? ”

 

“umm...sure...yeah...Snas is fine.” He answers, and you think it’s a bit weird the way he recoils when you answer. His eyes shift to the right, his mouth slackens a bit. And you swear there’s a dusting of blue right where his cheeks are.

 

“Grine...I mean great..... And y-you? How’s your umm...” You gesture to your left arm vaguely.

 

Your pitch is ridiculous. You cringe when your voice cracks.  You don’t know how much more awkward this can get. You cried yesterday because of this person. Most every part of you is curling in and away from him, because all you can remember is disappointment...unexplained and all from him. Heavy, cold, and dark.

 

But his blithe attitude doesn’t feel that way, and you really, really want to like this one, especially when he laughs at your inquiry with such good nature.So you listen to the one part of you that still thuds gently, telling you to observe and try again.

 

“It’s great, to patella the truth.” He grins sheepishly, waving his left arm for good measure.

 

You laugh again, this time it’s a little less forced.

 

“Ah...glad to hear that. Is there anything I can get you?”

 

“sure thing, i’d _bee_ happy to try anything you recommend.”

 

Did he seriously did just shoot finger guns at you? Yes. Yes he did. They’re still pointed at you...bony, silly finger guns that go really well with his smile.

 

You want to recommend that he grow up and get a real sense of humor...but you know you’d be the basest sort of hypocrite if you said that because you do find him funny. It’s just so complicated, the way you feel about his presence. You’re so broken, it’s a little hard for you to remember what it’s like to truly enjoy a new experience.

 

The gray apathy won’t let you. But you’re going to fight anyway.

 

“I’d recommend the vanilla cake and the grande mocha white chocolate...I like them _a-latte_.”

 

Finger guns deployed, aimed at target: _Snas_ . ( _Why the hell are your hands shaking? )_

 

“i’ll _cake_ the recommendations.”

 

You sigh in relief and input the order into the register, automatically pressing the right buttons because it’s what you always order for yourself.

 

“That’ll be $6.56.”

 

Snas puts his own pair of shooters away and reaches into his pocket for a worn, black wallet. It’s a faded leather, and he seems to deliberate between the bills crumpled messily in the slot or the shiny red card in the front.

 

He settles for cash, giving you exact change. And then proceeds to put a large bill in the tip jar.

Your trepidation lifts a little, his considerate act quirking your lips into a soft smile.

 

“Thank you...oh gosh...really, thanks.”

 

“nah. it’s nothing, kid. it’s the least i could do after...yesterday.”

 

He gives you an uneasy look, his smile is strained and you can tell there’s guilt laced through his expression. You offer him an awkward grin of your own, because you don’t know if you really understand what you’re supposed to be forgiving...or even if there’s anything to forgive. SOUL stuff is always fringed with emotion and it’s not the first time a patient has let out more than they expected to share.

 

Quickly before the silence stretches any longer, you turn and prepare his drink. You ask him, with your back still turned to him if he would like his order for here or to go. He gives a cursory glance out the vine covered windows and sighs.

 

“still raining outside. seems, april showers are earning their reputation here. I’ll just eat here, thanks.”

 

Your stomach plummets to your feet, and you’re so glad you’re turned away so that he can’t see the look of shattered expectation on your face. No relief in sight, you quickly sprinkle some cinnamon into the drink and cap it.

 

Snas seems to grimace as you write down his name in black marker on the side of the cardboard cup. He waves off your secondary bout of thanks, taking his order with him. He looks smaller somehow as he walks towards the back of the shop and settles into one of the corner tables.

 

You don’t know why, but somehow the melancholy is more painful than his disappointment.

 

_‘Don’t be stupid. You don’t even know him.’_

 

Catherine’s looks say she thinks otherwise, and her waggling her eyebrows suggestively does nothing to stop the thrumming of your pulse in your ears.

 

“Shut up, Catherine.” You mouth as she gives you _that_ look from underneath wisps of her teal colored hair that slip from her bun.

 

“I didn’t say anything, Bee.”

 

But her bright smile says otherwise.

* * *

 

 The rest of the evening shift is fairly normal.

 

The sun sets, and night falls softly over the city outside. The occasional red flare of car lights arcs across the small cafe. The novelty silverware clock ticks 7:00 PM, the fork and knife hands slicing through the hour in a way you wish you could.

 

And he’s still here.

 

Catherine is convinced he’s here for you. She keeps giving you suggestive glances, mouthing stuff like “he’s looking at you” or “oh my god. He just reordered your recommendations.” She seems to be on a life long mission to get you a suitor...even if it means skeletal stalkers with bad puns who by all expectations, _should not be here_.

 

You’re less preoccupied with the thought of a potential suitor, and more so with the fact that this deviation has spanned two days. You glance at him surreptitiously, distractedly dropping coffee so many times on your apron, that you wonder if it’s ever going to be pristine again. You get a couple of orders wrong. A lot of names wrong too.

 

“Really? I clearly said my name was Lester. _NOT LESLIE_.” The tired looking business man grumbles at you, straightening his tie as he glares at you.

 

“I’m so sorry, sir. Let me fix that for you.” You demure, embarrassment making red bloom stubbornly across your cheeks.

 

You pull your gaze reluctantly away from the skeleton still elegantly taking up the corner-most table. He is the picture of relaxation, legs propped up on the spindly chair across the table and sipping his third latte through his seemingly permanent smile. He’s not the only one in the cafe, but there are enough empty tables that you can’t really tell him not to take up two chairs all on his own.

 

Mr. Businessman is getting impatient. You quickly cross out the name and write out LESTER in big capital letters. Hopefully that’s enough to satisfy his ego.

 

_“Leslie is a lovely name though.”_

 

Oh shit, you said that last thought out loud. You stiffen when you see Lester redden.

Your cup of bitterness is full when you hear a familiar rich snicker coming from the back of the cafe. You don’t have to look at him to know he’s probably laughing at you.

 

“Why you _little-_ ” Lester starts.

 

“hey now...leslie is a lovely name. i’m sure the kid didn’t mean anything bad by it. just... _latte_ it go, lester.”

 

The laughter that ripples through the cafe is surprising, but mortifying. The other customers have a range of fearful anticipation and mild amusement.

 

Your savior is none other than Mr. Snas. Still laid back, still at that table, but he’s looking straight at Mr. Businessman and dear god, is he winking? You wait for the inevitable blow up, the shouting or the fighting to start...but Lester just seems to heave a tired sigh and laughs a little, his tired eyes brightening up the slightest bit.

 

And miracle of miracles, he actually smiles.

 

“Sorry...umm…” He looks at your name tag. “_______, is it? It’s been a long day. Bad headache and traffic this late isn’t really helping.”

 

“Oh...hold on.”

 

Pity stirs you to action. You’ve seen this man so many times before, but you’ve never taken the time to consider his situation. But not this time...watching isn’t enough.Tension headaches are the worst, so you quickly excuse yourself to the backroom and rummage through your backpack. You find the Tylenol in your ever present First Aid kit and run to to the counter again in record time. You get some water in a small plastic cup, and hand the medication bottle and water to the surprised businessman, still holding his coffee in surprise.

 

“Please. I’m sorry for the mix-up. Long days are hard. But take two of these, every four hours. With water and food. Otherwise you can get ulcers...oh NO, wait. I should have asked first. Are you allergic to acetaminophen? I would offer you an NSAID, but I’m not sure if you have...kidney...problems?”

 

Lester blinks a few times, before he shakes his head no while laughing.

 

“Do you always treat your customers to a medical rundown if they complain about headaches?”

 

“I’m a nursing student...Umm...I always have some in my bag...it’s what they taught us. Sorry.” You trail off, a sudden self-consciousness and unpredictability making you feel so much less sure of yourself than before.

 

He graciously accepts the bottle and promises to pay you back. You wave him away and serve the next customer, who looks at you with a soft smile of admiration.

 

You stutter through the next order, but they don’t point out when you give them a slice of angel cake rather than devil’s chocolate cake.

 

You don’t notice the glances Snas keeps throwing your way. Catherine keeps saying he’s looking, but by the time you try and sneakily peek at him from the corner of your sight, he’s heavily engrossed into...whatever it is he’s doing.

 

Why is here? Who is he? What does he want? What changed so drastically? He’s definitely not your neighbor. He has none of the heavy warmth that their presence makes you feel. He’s unsettling and joking and easy and you don’t understand at all. It’s irritating you, the fact that this is something out of your control and something you never expected. Your clockwork is skewed because of his mere presence, and for the life of you, you can’t find a clear cut reason as to why you’re bothered by this. Isn’t this what you wanted? Something different?

 

By the time you’re closing up, he’s already packing. He stuffs everything haphazardly into a black satchel, and gives you a lazy wave on his way out. Catherine bids him adieu with enthusiasm, still snickering at his earlier jokes. You merely hum a tired acknowledgement as you clean the floors, sagging against the handle of your mop when the bell rings and he’s disappeared into the rain.

 

And the golden hope is silently waiting for something you’re not sure you want.

* * *

 

 

He doesn’t understand it himself. Why he keeps seeking you out and why he keeps coming to this place?

 

Maybe he’s done waiting. Maybe he’s let his disappointment settle, let his assumptions lower a bit until he’s only got one piece in an intricate puzzle that spans a year.

 

You’re still an anomaly. And he’s always been a scientist, for better or for worse. There’s something about you that fits too well within this system. Your actions, like clockwork, are built around this circular existence. And he can see that his mere presence has thrown you off kilter...sent you spinning into mistake after mistake.

 

The look of confusion and frustration on your face is as endearing as it is satisfying. Because there is still a part of him that is angry. Still there’s a part of him that resents you for holding him so tight, for making him hope when your SOUL is far from red and your irritation raises his own ire. He feels vindicated that you don’t understand. That you don’t know a thing.

 

You’re even more lost than he is.

 

And yet, there’s still another part _(yes, he has many parts...many fraying broken pieces)_ that want you to understand. But you can only observe...you’re not DETERMINED enough to take actions larger than knocking silly songs on a door that’s always locked in your presence.

 

And even though he’s made no further attempt to reveal himself, still you knock and still you plead and apologize on his door. He knows things about you he doubts you would’ve said so openly had you been face to face. He knows how sad you are, how desperate, how confused.

 

So he keeps coming during your shifts. He cracks jokes. Makes light conversation with everyone until he’s firmly ensconced in your routine. And even your angry questions at closing time have no basis on anything but your own discomfort.

 

After all, who would believe you if you told them?

 

Only he would. Only he could understand you.

 

That thought comforts him a bit in this imbroglio he’s drawn himself into. Maybe you can still help him? He doesn’t know how...but something in him hums quietly telling him to _wait...wait...wait._

 

And so he does without much hope.

 

Still, he has his own clockwork to complete, and he dials the same number he does every month. He gets the same voicemail every month, but still he leaves a message.

 

“Hey...kid. How's Paps? hope both of you are okay. just hang on. please.”

* * *

 

It’s by the second week of this routine that you snap.

 

You don’t know if it was the long day of clinicals. The inability to always save that one...damn...patient. Every loop...there’s always a few you cant save, no matter how many paths you take. No matter how quickly you get there...they always die.

 

Today was one of those days. People had whispered _“Dark Cloud”_ as you put on your jacket in the locker room and hefted your backpack. The clouds outside had roiled and thundered, black and an unpleasant reminder. You really wish for summer again, but for now you deal with your wet scrubs and matted hair. Even your change of clothes are damp from the ride over, and you click your tongue in disappointment as you change the _Bean Hole’s_ bathroom before your shift starts.

 

The dark jeans you brought stick uncomfortably to your legs and what you thought had been a plain black shirt was actually one with “Ebbott Sluggers Jr. League” emblazoned in wide gold script.

 

This is a reminder of all your failures...all your inability to do anything but just watch...it hurts a lot. It takes you a while to pull yourself together. You don’t cry...even though you really want too. You’ve cried a lot these past few weeks, and you feel a little bad that you’ve wasted all your tears on someone that probably didn’t care enough about a fellow time-traveler to make further contact. You’ve wasted even less tears on a guy who made you feel like crap without explanation and who keeps showing up at the one place you thought would be a haven.

 

And you have to slap on a smile and deal with the anxiety that curls in your stomach like a writhing little worm that inches up your throat until you barely speak without wanting to scream. You don’t understand. Everything’s changed and yet nothing has changed and you feel like this is your first loop all over again, sad and tired and existentially done.

 

You get some relief when you step out and slip on your green apron, completely covering the words on your shirt. You feel better when 7:00 P.M rolls around, and there’s still no Mr.Snas in sight. Your hope wilts a little, the stem bending underneath the weight of your relief. It doesn’t make much sense, but you take the momentary reprieve.

 

Your feelings are tangled, joy and excitement inextricably laced with nervous anticipation and sadness. You can hardly sort out how you’re supposed to feel, because your highs have been so high and your lows have been so low.

 

Time looping is terrible for mental health. But even as a future nurse, you can’t bring yourself to ask for help because no one could solve this quagmire you were caught in. You knew support was always the best thing, but the one person who would’ve understood was cocooned behind a door unbearably near to you. So close, you’ve pressed your head against that door so many times...whispered so many pleading confessions that you’ve lost count.

 

You’re wiping down the counter, oddly quiet despite your reassurances to Catherine. She’s a sweetie...just too curious sometimes for your own good.

 

“Are you sad because your _verte-bae_ isn’t showing up today?” She teases a little, trying to get some kind of response from you...anything but flat replies and half-hearted answers.

 

A spark of irritation flares within you, and you grimace as you reply.

 

“He’s not my verte-bae or my anything. I don’t even know him.”

 

She hums in dissent, clearly not believing you because of your awkward interaction the first day he had been here. The banter you would occasionally throw between each other wasn’t helping your case either, but you tended to keep your speaking time with him at a minimum, even when he would throw a pun at you and you laughed in response.

 

The fork on the clock moves inexorably through the hours. And soon it’s about two hours before closing time. Catherine’s already on her way out, her bright yellow purse slung over her shoulder. Teal hair let loose out of her work bun. She started her Friday shift earlier than you did. She leaves you with a saucy wink.

 

_“Be good. Say hi to your bone-friend when you see him.”_

 

You glare at her, and return to your task at hand, carefully maneuvering around the crowded kitchenette to create some sense of order for today. You look up from organizing the boxes of tea on the shelf behind the counter when you hear her let out a little “oh” of surprise.

 

“Hello there, Snas.” She greets cheerfully as she heads out. He gives her a friendly smile and waves at her, then makes his way to the counter.

 

Catherine gives mouths one last _“Verte-bae”_ before she disappears around the corner, behind the dog rose windows.

 

He’s already in front of you by the time you’ve turned away from the door and the indignantly ringing bell. He’s got that ever present smile, but it doesn’t edge into his eyes today...the lights in his sockets are dim and you don’t know how it’s possible but there are literal bags underneath them.

 

You’re torn between sympathy and irritation again, in the same strange way he always makes you feel. You’re so tired yourself, and you can’t bring yourself to do more than sigh and say-

 

“Good evening Snas. Welcome to the Bean Hole. How may I help you?”

 

“come on, kid. there’s no one else here.” He points over his shoulder at the empty cafe. The lights are dim, and you have to hold back your “no duh.”

 

You settle for twisting your mouth into a frown, raising a brow to silently ask _“And?”_

 

“you don’t have to be so...stiff. like you’ve got a latte on your mind. why not espresso yourself a bit?”

 

He’s got the same slightly hopeful look on his face. The same one from when you first met him. He’s waiting for something...and you’re not sure what it is, but you’re not in the mood. You’re so tired. Those puns are great, but you can’t take that look of expectation in his expression.

 

You’re not here to meet whatever weird assumptions he has. You’re not here to fight against the clockwork that’s been keeping you sane and others alive for this long. You’re not here to watch as your ever so carefully fixed existence is spiraling into something uncomfortable and new.

 

He plays games. He might be an innocent, but he’s a deviation. And not one you understand enough, so you refuse to let him in.

 

You feel it coming, taut and ready to flare out in a searing wave of anger and confusion and hurt. You lift the section of the counter hinged for easy access, and step into his space. You stride towards him, closing the distance until you’ve trapped him in between you and the cash register.

 

You are seething. Your fists are balled up tight, just like your golden hope. Strands of hair are falling into your face, and you actually tiptoe to get your face closer to his.

 

“ **YOU** ....You want me to express myself? Okay fine. **_WHY ARE YOU HERE?_ ** Why were you at the hospital with a most-likely fake injury? Why do you keep plaguing me? Why do you smile all the time and pretend like everything’s just dandy?! **_WHY?_ ** **!** You’re wrong. You’re something wrong. _You’re not supposed to be here, Snas_.”

 

You stare at him. Burn you eyes into his own because you need answers. You’re at your wits end, the very nerves in your brain simmering with unbridled fury at this conundrum.

 

And for once, Snas is speechless. Out of all the things you could have done, he hadn’t been expecting this. His smile is frozen on his face. The lights in his eyes have dimmed considerably, and you feel a frisson of fear crawling down your back. Your breath hitches in anticipation, and for a brief second, you feel the desperation of disappointment sink like cold needles through you. But you’ve cried your tears, and you refuse to let the warm angry ones fall.

 

You’re not prepared for when he lets his head fall into his hands with a loud _clack_. Bone falls against bone, heavy and sorrowful. You’re not prepared for when he starts laughing. It chills you even more so than his expression, because it’s so flat and humorless and hopeless and it echoes your apathy so clearly.

 

“i don’t know. my name isn’t snas... _it’s sans, kid_. and i don’t know” He answers finally, still laughing into his hands and it kind of sounds like harsh sobbing at this point.

 

“i don’t know what i was thinking. I don’t know how I assumed a spoiled human with such low DETERMINATION would make a difference. Nothing ever does. And we’ll just keep going round and round and it will never **fucking** end. “

 

He hurts you deep, and a brief flash of understanding begins to form in your mind. His words build up into a hazy picture, looping and writhing and spinning and it all clicks when you hear a strange tearing sound and the wind whips through the coffee shop, making your hair dance in place.

 

Your eyes widen in realization, not really paying attention to the thin GAPING BLACK HOLE that Sans (not Snas, not Snazzy) tears into the space to the right of you and him. Through the gaping gaps in his carpals and metacarpals, you can see his left eye flaring blue and yellow, and you watch mesmerized.

 

The wind howls and the closer you get  to him, the more the warm leaden feelings grows. A burst of courage comes from the familiarity, and the angry tears fall, changing into ones of recognition. He doesn’t seem to be moving, but still somehow he’s going through the hole.

 

Something tells you...something deep within...that if he leaves now, you’ll never find him again.

 

So you do the only thing you can as he’s turning away to let the tear move through him.

 

_“WAIT!”_

 

You grab onto his bony right wrist, the sharp prickling sensation of his flaring magic licks its way up your forearm. The sensation is painful, but you hold on desperately even as he panics and rushes forward into the hole, pulling you with him.

 

Space doesn’t stop. Time doesn’t either. Instead, space rushes past you and you see impressions just as you would on your motorcycle, except infinitely less detailed and a million times more haze. Your body feels strange. Leaden and prickly and painful.All you can do is keep gripping as your sight leaves you and you let loose a scream when white hot pain lances through your chest.

 

And then it’s over.

 

You’re still reeling, grasping onto his wrist with one hand and clutching at your erratic heartbeat with the other.

 

You’re barely standing now, and he’s supporting you as best he can. He looks worse for the wear, the confusion you’d been feeling before now dawning in his expression. His grin is so much more loose now and his skull is dotted with blue droplets of sweat.

 

The magic in his eye has died down, and concern is underlying in his expression.

 

But even though you’re panting and trembling from the remembered pain, it still registers with you that you’re leaning against the coffee shop counter.

 

You’re still here, so you muster up all that’s left of your wilting golden hope and smile so large, your cheeks start to hurt. You’re pretty sure you’re still crying, but you don’t care because he’s here and you’re not alone as you say-

 

“Hey there neighbor, it’s _time_ we met.”

* * *

 

He doesn’t know why. He doesn’t know how.

 

It’s always worked. Shortcuts have always been the thing he was always sure of.

 

But you grabbed onto him and made him move so that he could stay.

 

And beyond all hope and beyond all understanding, he’s scared of what that means.

 

He’s scared of you, his anomaly.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH CRAP....LET THE RELUCTANT TEAMWORK BEGIN. WHY DOESN'T THE SHORTCUT WORK WITH YOU? Why does Sans leave messages to Frisk? WHAT THE HELL IS THIS CONVOLUTED RELATIONSHIP THEY'VE GOT GOING ON?
> 
> Le gasp?! HIS ANOMALY...Nah guys, read the tags. slow burn. SLOOOWWW BURN


	6. To Have Catharsis, Conversation, and Calming Tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapter where a long talk is overdue. Also TRIGGER WARNING: Reader has a panic attack. If reading anything like that might make you feel ill or anxious, I will mark the section with an *** at the beginning an end. This is the only one for this fic.

“ _Hey there neighbor. It’s time we met."_

 

Your grip is tight on his wrist, your slim fingers gripping desperately to the thick set of bone that rings the base of his hand. If he hadn’t been preoccupied with the fact that you had just negated his shortcut, he might have been put off by the manic way you held on to him.

 

His Soul is erratic, his magic flaring tendrils as his feelings threaten to rend apart his composure. His mouth is slack in disbelief, and he can’t decide if the way it all thuds within him is hope or dread.

 

Of all things, he never expected this. He never expected you to defy the very movement of space across its axis. He never expected you to stop him by moving him.

 

And yet, you don’t even realize the magnitude of what you’ve just done. He can see it in your expression. You are one word from shattering into a myriad tiny, dull pieces. Your eyes are bright, but it’s the light of a dying star. One that releases one last brilliant flare before it grows cold forever.

 

He understands that at the very least, so he takes a deep breath and faces you...you who are his anomaly with low Determination.

 

Deliberately, he takes his other hand and pries off your fingers from his wrist gently. He is so careful with you, and despite his better judgement, the golden hope rises anew in his chest. It sways tentatively, unfurling accusingly in your direction.

 

He sees your eyes dim as he drops your hand and stuffs his own into the deep pockets of his blue jacket. He doesn’t know what to feel, but he has to fist his fingers to stop himself from breaking and clinging onto you with all the fears he has. You don’t know any better than he.

 

You are both equals...lost and found in a world that keeps spinning in circles no matter what you both do.

 

“Heh...i guess, we really need to have a long talk, kid.”

 

He panics when you start blubbering again, your lower lip quivering and your brows scrunched together. It might have been comical had it not been for the pitiful look in your gaze. You bury your face in your hands.

 

Your breath is shallow and hitches every few seconds. Your apron is dotted with tears and you look so small, leaning against the counter top and slumped over in what looks to be relief.

 

“shit...i’m sorry kid. I…”

 

He’s surprised when you shake your head vehemently, face still buried in your hands. He can make out a few muffled words.

 

_Not your fault...sorry...i’m just...happy._

 

He sighs, letting his head fall onto his hand with a hard clacking sound. The absurdity of the situation has become real. The novelty clock ticks the minutes and the hour is late. Still, you are crying and he can’t comfort you. He’s never been good with tears and his hands still tremble at the idea of touching you again...of feeling that pulling warmth, hard and desperate.

 

It’s too much.

 

Your Soul cries out and he can’t see it, but he’s pretty damned sure it isn’t red. He doesn’t think he can stomach any more disappointment. So he doesn’t bother looking harder.

 

He waits until your sobs abate, and you can finally hold a decent conversation. Meanwhile, he just keeps handing you napkins from a nearby dispenser and winces every time you blow messily into one.

 

“c-come on kid. _Snot_ so bad to find out it was me this whole time.”

 

You give a watery laugh, your eyes still glistening with unshed tears.

 

His relief floods him unexpectedly. His smile answers yours, and he has to laugh a little when you panic at the time and begin to finish cleaning up the kitchenette. He politely doesn’t mention anything when you wipe away the remaining tears.

 

In fact, it’s kind of vicariously cathartic, watching you release all the pent up emotion. But fear still coils deep within his heart, choking what remains of this new golden hope.

 

He watches in silence as you slip into that thick green jacket you seem to favor so much, not even using his usual humor to break this tension. He cranes his neck to look for you as you slip into the backroom for your backpack, but just as quickly diverts his gaze to read the menu behind the counter. He doesn’t want you to see him so openly wary.

 

You lock up the cafe, key turning with a decisive _click_ that seems to announce a finality to this imbroglio. You are here to stay, whether he knows what use you’ll be or not.

 

The night is frigid. Your still slightly uneven breaths curl into delicate condensation, and he notices that you seem to be taking your time to even it out. His own breath is just as hazy, but it’s warmed by the fact that he’s buried his chin deeper into the fur that rings his hood.

 

There are no stars beyond the gray clouds that drift lazily across the sky. Instead the city lights lend their brightness to the night, and the streetlamps are warm pools of gold. They illuminate the pretty little white roses outside the building and he tentatively traces the petals of one as you fumble in your backpack for your personal keys.

 

There is a strangeness to the world now. It’s sharper. Less impressionistic in his mind because he is slowly getting used to the idea of an anchor.

 

He walks beside you with a dogged grimness in his face. He doesn’t have much to say and it seems you don’t either. It takes two minutes to find the familiar teal motorcycle; had it been any other night, he might have remarked on the sleekness of the paint job or the quirkiness of the cheerful curved lines that made it look more suited to joyrides than races. But tonight is not any night and the future gapes real and raw in front of him.

 

He gives you a dubious look when you point to your motorcycle, silently asking if he needs a ride.

 

“i’m good. i’ll just meet you back at th-”

 

“ _N-no_!”

 

It’s startling how earnest your interruption is. The word stumbles between you two, and he can see your fingers inadvertently reaching in his direction as you stand in front of your bike. You are veritably leaning against it now, and he has to breathe deeper to escape the suffocating feeling your desperation imparts.

 

“I..I mean, I’d really rather we stick together for now.” You have the politeness to look a little embarrassed as you lace your fingers together. Your face is flushed and he can’t bother to wonder if it’s from all the crying or from shyness, but he’s had enough surprises for today.

 

His _would-be-gut_ clenches at the thought of holding onto any part of you, but the thought of losing track of you...of you disappearing right into the haze of patterns is starting to become the greater of the two evils.

 

So he gives you a fake smile, hoping it comes out reassuring.

 

“looks _bike_ i’ll catch a ride with you then, kid.”

* * *

 

 

The city becomes nothing but a blur of lights around you, bright impressions that flare like stars as you speed as fast as you can back home. The hum of your bike's engine is loud and pleasingly numbing. It masks the strange buzzing vibrations that come from behind you.

 

Your body works to follow the new momentum you’ve got with an additional passenger behind you. It’s not that you’ve never driven with a passenger before, but it’s not often and they’re always pressed close enough to you that it’s easier to spread out the balance.

 

Sans (not Snas) is not just anyone. The hairs on the back of your neck rise and the leaden feeling in your stomach is heavy as you feel the magic emanate from him. You don’t have to look back at him to know he’s not touching you.

 

No part of him is making contact with you, and he’s assured you many times now that his magic can safely hold him to the bike, no matter how fast or how abruptly you maneuver through traffic. The glimpses of blue reflect oddly across your visor. Your helmet doesn’t let you have a good view of him, but you can imagine him sitting confidently with his arms crossed in front of him, facing backwards while maintaining a balance you cannot fathom.

 

He’s not even wearing a helmet and despite all your worry, you can’t force him to wear the spare you always have on hand. You can’t even tell him to sit right. You’re just so relieved he’s here, at the very edge of the passenger seat behind you. You don’t know if you should be amused by his sheer discomfort or insulted by the distance he keeps.

 

But your muddled thoughts keep looping unpleasantly, and you need to steady your breathing as you turn corners and weave around late night traffic. It’s Friday. And Friday nights are always slow.

 

All too soon, you’ve come to a stuttering halt in the your apartment’s parking complex. The wheels of your bike smoothly roll as you walk the bike awkwardly to the corner-most parking spot. It’s so strange, but even Sans’ added bulk doesn’t seem to make this much harder than usual for your mostly unexercised legs.

 

By the time you are stationed and have taken off your helmet, Sans is already off and to the side, leaning against a concrete column. His face is shadowed slightly, and vestigial wisps of cerulean magic still cling to the corner of his left eye.

 

“I...umm...so y-your place or mine?” You manage to force out, even though your throat is parched and your helmet is slipping out of your clammy hands.

 

You wince when you realize just how easily this can be misconstrued. It’s awkward enough that you are both at a loss for words, but the offer lands with an even more awkward smack in between you. It fills up the empty space, oddly inappropriate.

 

You feel the heat flush your cheeks, and you do the only thing you can and plop your helmet back over your head, relief flooding you even if you feel gross and sweaty underneath it.

 

“Shit...I mean crap. I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant where we should tal-”

 

His laughter cuts you off, and there’s something broken about it underneath all the rolling, richness. He sounds hollow, as if there’s really nothing beating beneath that rib cage of his.

 

“gosh kid, you act _bike_ i’m going to _ravish you or something_ ”

 

Despite yourself, you mumble out a high pitched retort. It’s muffled behind your helmet and your visor is down, so he can’t see your mortified expression.

 

“You already used that one.”

 

He still manages to hear it and laughs again, a little less harrowing than the last time.

 

“i guess i’m just off my game today, kid.”

 

“Not a kid.”

 

“now you’re just being contrary.” He smiles lazily at you, the lights rolling in his sockets at your petulant tone. He pushes off the column with a weary grunt and waves you forward as he begins walking to the door that leads straight into the apartment complex.

 

You hesitate for a bit, before jogging a little to catch up to his elegant shuffling, removing your helmet in the process.

 

The silence is less stifling and more contemplative as you two stumble up four flights of stairs, but not before he gives the _always-out-of-service_ elevator a longing glance.

 

“Sorry.” You say, because you have a feeling he would have used whatever magic he had used back at the cafe to just _appear?...teleport?...apparate?_...into his apartment if you hadn’t been with him. You chide yourself for that last one.

 

He stumbles a little at the top of a landing, hands gripping the banister for support as he turns to look at you over his shoulder. His eyes are wide, and for a second you can see a flash of that same fear from before. You have no idea why he should be scared of you. He’s taller, most likely stronger, and has the ability to tear holes in SPACE with one finger.

 

His smile is strained when he winks at you and clicks his tongue. (Wait, does he even have one?) You feel a frisson of nervousness needle it’s way down your spine, and you have to clutch your helmet tighter to your chest to stop yourself from squeaking at his abruptness.

 

“ _Tsk_. it’s fine. you’re apologizing for something out of your control. You’ll run out of _sorries_ if you keep doing that, bud.”

 

 _‘Doubt it.’_ You think to yourself in silence. You’ve never run out. Never.

 

Your boots thud heavily against the ugly green that carpets the stairs, rounding up and up. You keep him in sight, mesmerized partly by the way the fur on his hood waves in tandem with his fluid movements. As much as he feigns weariness, he does a bang up job of moving like gravity has no power over him.

 

It’s a little disconcerting, and you have to avert your gaze to the ground when he peeks back at you curiously.

 

Eventually you two make it into the silent hallway,  

 

Your apartments are the last two in the row, and you quietly make your way to them. He stops in front of his door. He’s taking a second, the magic flaring in his eye socket again licks its way past the top of his head, he raises a single finger and if you listen close, you can hear the quiet little clicks of the lock mechanism being moved without a key.

 

“That’s...really key uh, convenient, actually.”

 

“it really is _key-nvenien_ t, ain’t it?” He jokes, but his levity is out of place and out of time.

 

You don’t even try this time. You just clutch onto your helmet, the canvas of your jacket sounding loud with your movements.

 

Wordlessly, he opens the door and nods towards it, inviting you in. You hold your breath as you step over the threshold, gathering all your courage because you are now entering somewhere you’ve never been. The door is open and your neighbor is here and ready to talk.

 

And yet, your golden hope is silent.

* * *

 

The first thing you notice is the mess.

 

Your apartment is far from neat, but this is on a whole other plane of messiness.

 

There are socks strewn everywhere, crumpled papers lining the floor and used coffee mugs peppering every surface that wasn’t stacked with books and newspapers.

 

You make yourself smaller, feeling intensely invasive as you see the way this place enfolds Sans within its corners. He is bigger here...almost too big as he fills in the spaces with blue sadness. The sharp scent of winter and petrichor lingers a little more here and there is no warmth save for the one you feel blooming behind your neck.

 

A prickling sensation of embarrassment crawls down your back and you get ready to issue another apology, but Sans beats you to the punch.

 

“sorry for the mess. wasn’t expecting company today.” He says blithely and begins to painstakingly clear a space on the lumpy blue couch in the middle of the small living room. There’s a bundle of dirty looking blankets crumpled into a ball that he just throws into the open doorway of his bathroom. He sets up the few throw pillows against the back of couch, pulling at some fraying threads a little sheepishly.

 

Beads of sweat dot the shining white of his skull, and you realize with pity what he’s doing. He’s stalling. He doesn’t know how to approach this situation either.

 

Your fear dissipates, and your spine unfurls to stand straight. You settle your helmet on the stained coffee table, next to a pile of blue glass shards that look like they might spell out something. You ignore that detail for now, and plop down onto the seat he offers you, lacing your fingers together and waiting patiently for him to start.

 

You try to soften your expression, let the muscles of your face relax and the corners of your mouth tug upwards.

 

“ah...you feeling okay there kid? restroom’s over there if you need to use it. “ He points to the door smack dab in the middle of the hallway towards the back. “it’s the same layout as your apartment, i’m guessing.”

 

Screw sympathy. This is why drama class was your first B in high school, despite your efforts. Mortification sweeps through you and you shake your head vigorously to let him know that NO, you do not need to use the restroom. You just suck at facial expressions. You wonder at how all your choices have culminated in this moment. A skeleton is better at emotional facial patterns than you. You’ve never been good at pretending.

 

Your expression devolves into a frown, cheeks burning and you hate it so much.

 

He gives you a dubious look before brushing it off to plop on a single wooden chair, angled between the television set and the coffee table. He sits on it backwards, legs splayed on either side and arms and chin resting on the back to look at you fully.

 

“tell me what you know.” He says, and you can’t bother to question how you ever thought he was just as lost as you. The darkness in his eyes hardens and the pinpricks focus with an intensity you find overwhelming.

 

“I...I don’t know when it started. I just...woke up one day, and realized I had done all of this before. The first day, those lessons, those clinicals...that kid. It all came rushing in, and I just...froze.”

 

You lean your head in your hand, vaguely recalling the existential fear that had gripped you so tightly. You were lost. You were alone. You changed the one thing you could, didn’t think as you rammed your motorcycle into that silver car a few blocks down from that intersection.

 

All you remember is golden flowers waving in the breeze on your way to school, and golden flowers in your apartment and golden flowers even back _then. Golden flowers that told you to stop crying and keep going while you slept in the grass._

 

You blink a little, and shake your head to relieve your confusion.

 

“how many times have you been through this year?” Sans asks, shooting off the question with the same clinical attitude you had interrogated him with at the hospital. It seems to be a little strange being on the receiving end and you are a bit sorry for the way you acted.

 

“Eight.” You answer, hugging yourself. “W- Well, it’s more like seven and a day.”

 

He seems to pause at your amendment, but decides to leave that for later. He smiles wryly, a grim humor lacing his grin.

 

“i got ya beat, kid. i remember ten.” He holds up all ten of his fingers to emphasize this...but there is no actual pride in his tone. It’s just flat.

 

“T-ten?”

*******

You feel so small. Your heart races with this knowledge, and you have to gulp in large sums of air, feeling that familiar tightness in your chest. Your mind is reeling. Your head is spinning. Two years you can’t remember. Two years circling through an existence like the fannings in a cup of tea, fruitless and spelling out a fortune you can’t read.

 

You can’t cry. You heave dry sobs, but you feel them distant, as if you are not really in this place. Oh you know you are dissociating, but you can’t be bothered to stop it. The culmination of all your fear springs free, unraveling fast.

 

Sans is soon in front of you, his phalanges are warm and sharp against your shoulders. He’s looking into your dull eyes, seeking out reciprocation as you begin to hyperventilate. You feel so dizzy, and his touch is an anchor.

 

He leans his forehead against yours, and it’s hard and warm and sweaty and you are too. But you’re too far gone to know that it’s weird.

 

“Kid…” He tries.

 

But your eyes stare wildly vacant at him, spinning left and right as you feel the room grow smaller.

 

_“Bee!”_

 

Still nothing. Only a slight pinch of recognition, but nothing matters. It’s all stardust. Black edges into your sight. You feel as if you could float. Your chest is closed tight, like your neighbor’s door. You’ll never get out. You’re alone.

 

“_____! **_L o o k  a t  m e_ **...You’re here, okay? You’re with me. You’re not alone anymore. I know that you feel like you don’t matter. that nothing can change, but it can. It did. We’re here.”

******

 

You finally look at him. Unblinking. Too bright. He closes his eyes against your sight, and takes deep, slow breaths. You try to match them.

 

“We’re here together, ____”

* * *

 

The panic attack had drained you. You were exhausted. Your jacket was roughly pulled off to help you breath better. After that, Sans had quickly wrapped you in a spare, clean blanket that smelled like the ocean and had sloppy patches in the corners. But it was tight and you felt like you were _here_.

 

You are holding a chipped mug of warm chamomile tea in your hands, the heat seeping into your palms and threading its way gently up as you cupped it to your chest. You peer up at him through the curling steam.

 

“Thank you, Sans. I’m so-”

 

He holds up his hand again to stop you, and he seems almost exasperated when he tells you-

 

“you don’t need to apologize for something you can’t control, kid. besides, quali- _tea_ over quanti- _tea_ is the rule for  _sorries_.”

 

You’re too tired to even pretend to dislike his puns at this point, so you give a little weary giggle in response. You take a sip from your mug when his smile strengthens, and his eyes soften.

 

You’re both still in the living room, but Sans has made the effort of detaching a large cork board from his bedroom wall and leaned it against a few books on the coffee table so that it sits in plain view for you.

 

He fiddles with a few red strings spanning the board. The map stretched across most of the center is dotted with multi-colored push pins and scribbles. Cut outs of newspaper reports edge the border and have passages highlighted in blue and yellow.

 

It looks like an old school investigation is being conducted and you have no clue where to look first. Luckily, Sans is a patient skeleton and he sets out to explain the basics.

 

“it's been a long day. so I'm asking you one more time, are you sure you want to go through this now?”

 

Your mouth is set into a grimace. And for someone with so low a DT value, you sure are stubborn as you nod yes.

 

He thinks that it's almost sad, the way you try so hard and get so little.

 

“okay. I'm going to start with a story. you just need to listen. Ask questions after, capiche?

 

“Okey do-tea.” you offer hesitantly, lifting up your half full mug in the process.

 

It does the trick. He laughs for real this time.

 

“alright. joking aside, what do you know about how we got out?”

 

You blink a little. The question is unexpected, but you know the speech by rote because it happened while you were barely a freshman in high school. The reports had glanced over something about a kid named Frisk and a vague story about breaking the barrier.

 

 _(There was also your family affairs tied inextricably to the events after, but you prefer not to touch on that._ )

 

“S-some kid named Frisk broke the barrier? EbottTown is a big city though, so no one really noticed that they were missing...it happens a lot more than people like to think...but, yeah...that's all I pretty much know.”

 

You're not really lying. You know the lengthy epilogue to the magical story much more than what happened before monsters were freed. You know it all too well.

 

He hums in satisfaction and you relax a little deeper into the folds of the blanket.

 

“alright.” Sans looks nervous as he runs his hands over his skull with a faint skidding noise. He looks a bit sallow in the dim florescent lighting, and you begin to wonder what else he has in store.

 

You wait and watch, it's all you can do for now.

 

“okay.” He seems to finally settle on what he wants to say. “don't freak out, but do you know why i was able to figure out what we were stuck in before you?”

 

Curiosity drives you again and you have to bite back the flurry of questions that rises with the bile in your throat.

 

“No. I don't.”

 

He swallows thickly and again, you push back inquiries of his anatomy. Now is not the time.

 

“well...kid, this isn't the first _time_ i’ve been through a time loop.”

 

“W-what?! Then how am I just figuring this out now? Why do I remember this time? What did I do? Why do you remember? Who are you?”

 

He looks almost fearful as your questions spill out, but you can barely restrain from asking more.

 

“calm down, Bee. You're going to blow a gasket.”

 

“So-”

 

He shoots you a  stern look.

 

“Socks...you have a lot of socks.” you save yourself very badly.

 

His look of incredulity is almost funny and you have to hide your embarrassed grin in the lip of your mug, the tea still lukewarm.

 

“Go on.”

 

“okay. Frisk is special, even for a human.”

 

“How so?”

 

“they've got the highest DETERMINATION value. the computer system you use in your SOUL scanner? that's all arbitrary equations measuring everyone else against Frisk’s data. they were the first to have their Soul tested by my colleagues.”

 

Wow. The word _colleagues_ catches your attention. But the importance of DT is not a new thing. our expression becomes a little downcast as you remember your very low DT value. You're beginning to wonder if Sans’ disappointment wasn't unjustified.

 

He plows on, seemingly too wrapped up in his own explanation now to notice.

 

“DT is highly valued for a lot of reasons. its powerful in its own right, but with the amount that Frisk has, they tapped into something _very,_ and I mean _very, strange.”_

 

Here it comes. The answer to your problems….at least some of them. Your hold on the mug tightens. Your knuckles turn pale.

 

“What i-is it?” You choke out. There's a not in your throat and you grit your teeth.

 

“DETERMINATION in high enough amounts lets you RESET time to any point you choose.”

 

“ **HOLY SHIT!”**

 

“yep.”

 

You can feel your jaw literally drop. But you can't be bothered to peel it off the ground where it probably landed. Okay, over exaggeration of course, but you are pretty darn close.

 

“close your mouth kid. i can see all the way down the back of your throat. “

 

You close it shut fast, almost biting your tongue in the process.

 

“it's kind of why you're really confusing me. i expected someone who was at least aware of the time loops to have a very high Determination. seems like that theory is out the window though.”

 

You flush a little, and you can't help but feel a stab of annoyance. It's not your fault your DT is so low. For all you know, you were born like that.

 

“So...I'm useless? Is that what you're saying?” you murmur, anger simmering just below your new calm.

 

It's his turn to be surprised. He seems taken aback, but he doesn't deny the claim.

 

“it's not like that….at least not now.” He has the decency to look apologetic, _at least_. He rubs the back of his skull with that same faint skidding noise and you take pity on him.

 

“It's okay. I...don't know how I can help either. I was...I thought you could…” you trail off, but it's pretty clear what you're getting at. You thought he could help you break free. He thought you could help him.

 

He gives a strained laugh, humorless and dejected.

 

“ _don't assume because you make an ass out of you and me_ ….i always thought i was good at figuring things out. made me a lousy scientist back then...i guess we both did that this time around. sorry for assuming, kid.”

 

He seems to mean it. So you suck up what little is left of your pride, and apologize.

 

“Y-yeah. I'm sorry too, Sans.”

 

You sniffle a little, giving a watery laugh again. You feel the back of your eyes burn with frustration. You thought you had run out of tears. You sniffle louder this time, on purpose. He seems panicked that you might cry again, so you rub under your nose theatrically.

 

“ _Snot_ your fault though. This situation is just so...messed up.” you offer jokingly.

 

“i already used that one.” he chides.

 

You both break into snickers and it's a nice reprieve from the earlier tension. You can't help but wonder if this is how it's going to be from now on.

 

His grin is wide, digging into his eyes again in a way you've come to recognize as genuine. 

You really hope the ease will remain, but after every thing, you're going to keep a healthy dose of skepticism. Despite his apology, something tells you he's still not over his disappointment.You can't really blame him. Not when the same feeling curls heavy in your chest, settling deep beneath the current ease.

 

You both sober up fast, mirth fading away like mist in the sun.

 

“Alright. So you think Resets have something to do with Frisk?”  

 

“they've got everything to do with Frisk.”

 

And here his voice goes dark, creeping eerily across the space between you, and you feel goosebumps rise. Sans might have deeper depths than you at first realized.

 

He turns with suddenness to tap a finger against a newspaper article dated on an early April day, about a month back.The headline is bold and clear and you chide yourself for never paying attention to national news.

 

_**HUMAN AMBASSADOR FRISK AND LOCAL MONSTER MISSING.** _

 

In the center of the article, there is a black and white picture of a human child with narrow eyes and a friendly smile. Their arm is looped through the arm of a very tall and lean skeletal monster who's dressed in what looks to be like armor and a cape.

 

The picture looks sweet. Wholesome, even. You wonder if this cheery looking skeleton and Sans are related. You turn to ask him, but the words die on your lips when you see his face. Sans looks at it with hollow eye sockets and a sinking pressure fills the air, spiraling and dark and cold.

 

The pit in your stomach makes you look back at the article. You distact yourself with the details to relax.

 

Then it hits you. You gasp when you realize that the date marks the day the loop starts. The sinking feeling from him is disrupted all of a sudden and the lights flash back into his eyes when you shout.

 

_“Oh. OH GOD! How did I not realize this?!”_

 

You are so angry at yourself. You jerk forward with the revelation, sloshing some tea onto your lap. Thankfully, it's cool enough that it doesn't burn, but it's enough to pull you from your stupor.

 

“I-im so clueless. I've been wrapped up in my own little schedule for eight years, and I never even noticed!”

 

The disappointment is rife, but Sans simply shakes his head and clucks in disapproval.

 

“i don't really blame you. you had a hard enough time adjusting. besides, the media is awfully biased towards human pieces as opposed to anything that might paint monsters as potential victims. this wasn't widely reported.”

 

“But they're the ambassador? _I MEAN WHO WOULDN'T NOTICE THE AMBASSADOR MISSING?!”_

 

“they don't care kid. Frisk’s nothing but a figure head to them.” He explains dejectedly. He slumps in his seat, leaning his head against his hand.

 

“ they don't take them seriously. hell, they probably wouldn't take Asgore and Tori seriously if it weren't for their size and the support of humans who believe in them.”

 

It doesn't slip past you that he uses a casual reference to the Queen of Monsters, but you have bigger fish to fry right now. (You mentally apologize to Undyne for the figure of speech.)

 

Your anger broils, but it's all confused and hazy. You don't know if you're angry at yourself, at the media, at the humans in charge, or hell, even at Frisk for trapping you in this time loop.

 

You want to get to the bottom of this story, But you have one last burning question. It's been searing a hole into your tongue this whole time, begging to be spoken.

 

“Before we go any further, I need to ask this.”

 

Sans finally looks too tired to talk. He just gives you a non-committal grunt and shrugs at you to go ahead.

 

“I know we don't know why I remember stuff...but how come you can? Human levels of DT in monsters can be fatal. We know this, so why can you?”

 

His eyes roll lazily to look at you, and there's something all together sharp in the way one side of his grin lifts higher than the other.

 

“it's a long story.”

 

Something….strange bubbles in your stomach at his baritone and you shove it to a place where the sun don't shine and mentally label it “Trash”.

 

“I've got my fair share of long stories. I can handle it.”

 

His smile grows slack, his eyes are focused at you as if he’s looking for something. You instinctively huddle deeper into the blanket and lumpy couch, and the something that keeps you going thuds harder.

 

“because I have Patience.” he drawls, finally pulling away his gaze to your immense relief.

 

“Yeah. I have patience too, doesn't explain why I know I'm in a time loop.” You sass bitterly, setting down the mug on the already crowded coffee table.

 

“you’re a nursing student. of course you have patients.”

 

He winks. You swallow thickly, annoyance heavy and familiar again. He's back to playing games. You did not sign up for game night. Your expression is hardly amused and your glare tells him so.

 

He sighs, figuring he's pushed you to your limits.

 

“Patience, with a capital P. same as Determination with a capital D. it’s another Soul trait, though i'm assuming you know that already.”

 

Your mouth forms an oh, epiphany striking you hard. The Soul Traits determine the color of a human Soul, but they've never really shown any significance other than a pre-disposition to certain actions. The others are hardly researched, not like DT. No one wants to fund studies on froo froo stuff like Kindness or Bravery. It's all about DT.

 

“Okay...but Monster Souls are colorless.” you counter, a bit bewildered.

 

“you use a different setting for monsters on that scanner right? a different set of parameters is programmed for us. we still have the traits, but in much lower and more balanced amounts.”

 

His expression is serious for once, and his grin is more of a grimace as he grips at his chest over his jacket.

 

You know enough Soul stuff that that's most likely where his own is housed. Same spot as humans.

 

“my highest trait is Patience. and when you have enough of that...you can do to Space what Determination does to Time...in a sense.”

 

“What does that mean?”

 

“Determination is literally strong enough to grip Time and pull it back to a..let’s call it a SAVE point. instead of pulling Space though, i just have to tear it a little and wait for it to pass me by until I get to where i need to.”

 

“HOLY CRAP! Oh my god…”

 

You grab one of the shabby brown throw pillows from next to you and bury your face in it. Sans snickers when he hears your muffled screaming. He can make out words like _fuck...amazing...Jesus Christ...pogo stick?..._ and a long series if inaudible swears.

 

“kid...it's not that cool.” he says through his laughter.

 

You raise your head from the pillow, eyes bright and smile wide.

 

“ _YOU LITERALLY MOVE THROUGH SPACE LIKE A MOUSE THROUGH CHEESE. HOW IS THAT NOT COOL?!”_

 

 _“_ it seems to have limitations. limitations that I didn't know about until today.” he grimaces and there it is...that same fear he looked at you with earlier.

 

You calm down a little, setting the pillow in your lap when you remember grabbing onto him. How it had hurt to even go through the gap. How it had blinded you and you still hadn't moved. Confusion and hesitation mar your earlier smile and you give a self deprecating laugh.

 

“I'm the limitation then, aren't I?”

 

He opens his mouth to try and agree but thinks better of it.

 

“you made me move. i haven't done that in a long time.”

 

And when you look at him again, there is fear there...but there is also hope and it shines golden in his smile and in his eyes.

 

And it's just enough to make you grin hesitantly right on back. You gather up your courage and listen to the the thing that thuds within you. It doesn't shine gold or bright. Hell, it seems like such a deep, dark thing that you can't really tell what color it would be, but you listen to it.

 

You move forward to the edge of the couch, letting the blanket slip off your shoulders and tap the corkboard decisively.

 

His gaze is open, fearful...expectant.

 

“Where do we start?” you ask quietly.

 

He beams again, and mimics your tapping on the same spot.

 

“here's good.”

 

And so you both settle into this routine, leaning closer and closer until you're both on the floor, discussing details and patterns as you reference the map.

 

The clock ticks on by and the stars wheel across the sky outside, and just like them, you two take your first steps forward together.

 

And that's just enough.

\----

 

FANART SHOWCASE: SINNABEE'S TRAGIC MK PIC

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO BASICALLY, WHAT THE TITLE SAYS. NEXT CHAPTER ROAD TRRIP AND SOME COMPLICATIONS. things get a lot hairier when there are people that care about you. Also, ONE LESS TRAIT REDACTED. PATIENCE SHOULD BE REVEALED NOW.
> 
> AAND MAY I LINK YOU ALL TO THE AMAAAAZING SINNABEE'S NEWEST ART PIECE: http://sinnabee.tumblr.com/post/144235657792/so-i-posted-a-while-ago-a-very-happy-little
> 
> CRY. ALL OF YOU CRY. IT'S MK'S FLOWER CORNER.


	7. To Have Your Words Fail Tori-mendously

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which you find yourself wishing for a better lexicon and we get more characters to complicate matters. ALSO YES, WE GET MORE CLUES AS TO READER'S BACKSTORY.
> 
> Also THE ONE THAT HAS NO TYPOS OR GRAMMAR MISTAKES BECAUSE SINNABEE BETA'D AND I AM AS HAPPY AS A CLAM. THANK YOU TO SINNABEE AND EVERYONE WHO COMMENTED, READ, GAVE A KUDOS, OR BOOKMARKED THIS THING. It means a lot.

PATIENCE is innately slow going. As it is, he’s a fairly unhurried person. So why does this bother him? This achingly stuttering dance you keep tiptoeing around him.

 

You are at once hesitant and confident. Optimistic and hopeless. A conundrum that is so frustratingly difficult to keep up with.

 

Still, he’s hesitant to breach anymore than necessary that quiet little gap between the two of you. And the silence stretches on as you both make your way up the stairs to his apartment again. A week since you first came through his open door, and he’s found that the change is a welcome one.

 

Your hands are preoccupied, carrying a large bunch of eerily familiar golden flowers. They’re wrapped prettily in cellophane and pink ribbons, and the smile on your face as you look at them is broad and soft.

 

“you know, kid, if the landlady sees those, she’s going to _leaf_ you out in the cold.” He comments, not really concerned one way or the other. Knowing your stubborn self, you’d find a way to charm your way back into her good graces...bumbling words and all.

 

You ignore him, gently smoothing over a wilted petal.

 

“They’re just flowers. They’re nice. And I don’t see why these are the only ones she bans. That cat monster across the courtyard has a whole bunch of yellow flowers on her balcony.”

 

“yellow flowers, bee. not golden ones.”

 

Your heavy steps thud behind him and he has to wonder how he’s managed to live next to you for three years and not gone insane with your noisy self.

 

“You must be color blind then, _Snas._  These are clearly a dark yellow.”

 

You sound a little smug. It seems he’s none too subtle regarding how he feels about that name. You’ve been using it against him when you can. He rolls his eyes, reaching for the door knob that would lead into the fourth floor hallway. There’s no room for semantics on his watch. Even his Patience isn’t strong enough to deal with proper wording or the right shades of color.

 

“no need to be petal-ent.” He quips.

 

You snicker softly, and he finds himself thinking that you should do it more often. It’s much less agitating than your hesitant questions. And infinitely more comfortable than your awkward attempts to avoid touching him. _(He’s a little grateful to you for it, but you are awfully unsubtle about your efforts.)_

 

“Ouch. That one was bad, and you know it.” You tell him, and pull out your keys. You fumble a bit, cursing softly when you have to shake the jammed door to get it to creak open. “ _Ah...Yay!_ Okay. I’m going to just put these flowers in water and I’ll meet you at your place?”

 

You look at him expectantly, and still a bit in fear. He doesn’t know if it’s because you think he’ll disappear on you or if you’re genuinely afraid of him being insulted. He doesn’t blame you. It seems your feelings are mutual on these points.

 

Half the time he wonders if he’s just been imagining your existence. The other half of the time, he’s pulling answers from you, painstakingly careful not to prod to hard, because you’ll clam up. The few times he went into your apartment, it had been spotless. He couldn’t glean much more information about you from your space than he could from talking to you directly.

 

Neither he nor you seem to be willing to share much beyond what might help with this time loop. And he’s not sure if he likes that or not.

 

He gives you a cheeky wink, and promptly tears a hole into Space. He knows you’ve caught a glimpse of his apartment through it because as he disappears into it, he hears you say-

 

_“For God’s sake Sans, your door is three feet away!”_

 

His rolling laughter is swallowed up by the wind that carries him away. Despite the complexity of it all, he finds himself looking forward to a year spent in your company.

 

* * *

 

You would never call yourself a linguist. But there was a time when you were still fresh faced and an aspiring lawyer, and you had held the power of words in high esteem. It’s a habit that’s stuck well into your looping existence and has only been ironed out into a comforting tick. It’s something that keeps you from spouting the wrong thing at the wrong time (mostly), because you make sure to think before you let your words fly.

 

It’s been two weeks since you came to an understanding with Sans. And it’s been about a month and a half since your control over your lexicon has flown out the rain speckled window. You blame it entirely on Sans.

 

You sit on his green carpet and you think and you try to sound smart as you glance at the now crowded corkboard settled again on Sans’ coffee table.You find yourself humming in agreement when Sans points out a new connection or dismisses a suggestion you may have warbled once or twice. You’re out of your depth here. You need to understand.

 

Your fingers delicately trace the paths of red string that connect the newspapers snippets.

 

It doesn't escape your notice that as soon as your hand is on the corkboard, he drops his own to fiddle with his phone in his lap. You try to stifle the sharp, stinging feeling of rejection. It’s always been like this with him. There’s some kind of barrier he builds so quietly between you two. You want to ask why. For the thousandth time, you feel your mouth open, feel your vocal chords shifting to make a sound, but nothing useful comes out.

 

“SO?” you say a little loudly. You mutter a quick apology when he winces and looks up from his phone.  “ah..I mean, so...Frisk is for sure responsible for these resets...and all this-”

 

You wave a vague hand over the expanse of the board.

 

“All this is what you've deduced and, apparently followed in past loops. What's your plan for this one?”

 

_Ah. Finally, a smart question, _____._

 

“same plan. follow their trail and try and beat them to a future location...but it's not clear here...because they change every time. frisk remembers the loops too.”

 

You can feel your thoughts bobbing up and down, head just barely above water. The pressure is settling uncomfortably in the pit of your stomach. It’s dark and cold, despite the warmth of the borrowed blanket that smells like the sea. You brought your own favorite of blend of tea this time. You’ve even left your favorite mug here on occasion.

 

“Oh...follow their trail.”

 

Yet you are set to drift, drowning in an inky blue sea pooling in the depths of Sans’ piercing gaze. He's going to leave again. He's going to leave and you won't know what to do with yourself if he does because he's already become the only steady thing in a loop that has deviated so much.

 

But he throws you a lifeline.

 

“so, when can we leave?” He asks you, and his voice is earnest and beckoning. A watery tone that ebbs gently in the current of your thoughts.

 

“L-leave? _We_?” You eek out, your throat closing up in indignant surprise because his question comes without pause. Surprise because this was the last thing you’d been expecting. Indignant because he just assumed again. And you know yourself well enough that you would go along with those assumptions. You’ll just let yourself be pulled along, hoping that this will be the change needed.

 

Your desperation places your trust squarely in the palms of his bony hands.

 

He merely waits for your answer.

 

“I know you usually leave by this week...but, can we wait three more weeks?” You fiddle with the fraying threads at the edge of the blanket. Anxiety still twists within you and you realize that darkness is your own disappointment with yourself. You’re doing it again. Watching and waiting until someone else makes the first move. You’re also probably weighing him down, dragging him back.

 

“i guess we can. any special reason?” He asks quietly, eyes lingering on the play of your hands and the nervousness etched into your form.

 

You know this for sure. However many words may slip from your grasp today, this is the one that always sticks.

 

“Clockwork.” You shift your gaze to steadily glance at him, a note of bitter confidence edging its way into your voice.

 

“clockwork?”

 

You nod.

 

“I always have finals by the end of May. I _need_ to be at my last round of clinicals. There’s...things I have to do. Then I’m free.”

 

“things you have to do?” He prods, but you’ve already said all you are comfortable with admitting to.

 

How do you tell him you are literally the only thing that stands between people dying or not? How do you tell him that you literally run yourself ragged by the clock on these days because you want to change? How do you tell him you’ve become a slave to Time? He already knows you’re weak. Already knows you can’t do much but observe and try and learn.

 

Patient confidentiality, embarrassment, and maybe a slight fear of judgement all make your lips tighten into a thin line. Your brows drift down into a frown and you have to give him a half smile.

 

“Nursing things, dude. Very important stuff.” You shrug lightly, trying to shake him off. “So let’s get back to this investigative trip. How are we going to follow their trail if I’m...?”

 

You gesture vaguely to your personage, straining awkwardly among the folds of the blanket.

 

He gets what you mean. With your strange inability to travel through his shortcuts, that’s quickly become a dead end.

 

“Road trip, kid.” He smiles a bit indulgently.

 

“Well, there go my summer plans to travel to Brazil.” You say lightly, just relieved that he isn’t prodding you anymore about your clockwork.

 

He snickers, nice and low. He falls back onto the pile of dingy pillows he’s spread all around you on the floor, and lays down. He shifts a languid half-lidded gaze in your direction. You pray he takes the bait, and you know that he knows that you’ve dodged his question. You look away from him to observe the little fannings in the bottom of your mug. They drift aimlessly, without much direction.

 

“that’s a shame, bud. because i’ve heard brazil is _amazon_ this time of year.”

 

You slump over in relief, letting out a tired giggle. He’s dropped the clockwork for now.

 

You wonder if it will always be this way between you two. Secrets filling up the silences until you feel you’re about to burst with curiosity or crumble with sadness. But there's not much you can do but ask the right questions, carefully maneuvering your interactions.

 

“Nice one...though I have to ask. How exactly are we trekking across the country? Bus, plane? Do you have a car I’ve never seen you use?”

 

He props open one eye to peer up from the ground. It would look kind of attractive, if it wasn't for the surety with which he looked at you. You grit your teeth, fully ready for another assumption to sweep you away into a hazy decision. Because the something that thuds inside you says this is okay and the golden hope sways cheerfully.

 

“about that...i was going to rent a car, but i’m _two tired_ from work to do it.” He puns meaningfully, and you know exactly what he’s hinting at.

 

You can feel the protests welling up inside you, blooming large until the petals brush the back of your lips and you are tempted to just let it all loose. But his grin is lopsided again and his eye is deep and expectant and oh god, you thought you had thrown that stupid feeling in the trash bin of your thoughts.

 

So you trust yourself enough now to open your mouth and say _no_. No, you are not taking him across the country on your beautiful bike.

 

“Sure. Just let me make a list of things we’ll need to take with us.”

 

_Shit._

 

His answering grin is brilliant, closing his eyes shut and you clutch at your throat because it’s being ravaged by your heart leaping up into it and straining to...what? offer itself to him? **_Hell no_ **.

 

You look at him smiling like a loon and you push down your heart with a series of internal admonishments. This is just happiness that you’re not alone. Desperation has made you into someone starved for any kind of meaningful attention and now that you have his, he who isn't becoming a set pattern, you want it. Its nothing as silly as a crush. It is nothing more than camaraderie, born of despair.

 

_‘He doesn’t even have dimples. Skeletons don’t have dimples...and that’s a deal breaker right there.’_

 

The thought is stupid enough, but honestly you’re just clinging onto the last bits of sense you have. And if dimples were a deal breaker, then so be it.

 

Besides...it’s a lot more complicated than that...it always is with time loops. And he represents everything you’ve hoped for and not. He could slip away at any moment. He almost did. So you cling to him with this desperation. Comply with his terms, however unwillingly, just to keep that door of his open.

 

And the word flits easily into your thoughts now.

 

Everything is so horrifyingly, terrifyingly... _tentative._

* * *

 

 

 _Mundane_ is a fairly subjective word, particularly when his mundane usually includes a few hours spent as a prep cook at the Italian fusion restaurant just a few blocks from his house. Mundane is stopping by Asgore’s flower shop and buying a few dozen fresh blooms to decorate his living room. Mundane is picking up Frisk from school and polishing his Battle Body until it shines as white and bright as the sunlight drifting through the curtains in Sans’ old room.

 

Mundane has now become a swiftly changing thing. Mundane has become dingy motel rooms and bumpy interstate bus rides with car sickness and covert trips into a local supermarket, like today.

 

Papyrus tries to be cheerful. He really does, even as he slumps a little further into his knit gray sweater and tips the brim of his bucket style hat over his eyes. He tries his best to avoid the curious looks he’s getting in the pasta aisle, slowly edging himself closer to the soup section. He clutches the red shopping basket closer, shuffling uneasily as he glances at the selection.

 

He feels his magic flare bright and panicked when a slim hand threads its way around his elbow. He lets out a soft _Nyeh_ , air rushing through his clenched smile.

 

But when he looks down to the person the hand is attached to, he sighs in relief.

 

“FRI-”

 

The hand tightens ever so slightly on the material of his sweater. Frisk peers up at him, eyes narrowed in frantic warning. Their other hand is raised to their mouth, index finger pressed to their thin lips. Their hair is mussed, rich brown strands feathered around their still chubby cheeks. They move a little stiffly as they try and maintain their hold on the something tucked under their arm.

 

“AH!...” Papyrus lowers his voice. It cracks a little from having to keep a low volume all the time, but he understands well enough that they need to bring as little attention to themselves as possible. “Is this better, then?”

 

Frisk nods apologetically, patting his arm again to comfort him. They then begin to release a flurry of signs, and Papyrus can barely make out the words; _sorry_ ... _it will be okay_ ... _good dinner today_.

 

“Yes! Do not worry, small human. I understand! Did you find what you were searching for?”

 

Frisk seems to pause contemplatively for a bit, their currant-colored eyes wide open for once. They blink a few times and play with the hem of their white button up blouse before realization hits them. The question Papyrus asked can have many nuances, tangled up in the situation they’ve willingly thrown themselves into. But Frisk knows Paps isn’t so philosophical as to ask with the meanings that matter.

 

Because Paps is mundane in the best of ways; solid, brave and dependable. Frisk counts themselves lucky that he is the one to accompany them.

 

They quickly bring out the now somewhat warm can of soup from under their arm and show it to Papyrus with a gleeful grin. They laugh a little when he makes a disgusted noise.

 

“You Know Small Human. I, the Great Papyrus, Will NOT Be Eating Armpit Soup Tonight!” He hisses, his voice rising slightly in indignation. His eyes are narrow and if he had lips, they would be curled in distaste.

 

Frisk merely laughs cheerily, brandishing the soup can at Papyrus, shaking it so that the liquid sloshes threateningly inside.

 

Papyrus leans away and swiftly grabs a bag of dried pasta from the shelf in front of him, not even looking at the label. Frisk gives the pack a dubious look, and tilts their head in confusion.

 

“I Will Add Pasta To The Soup! For Excellence, Of Course. This…” He takes a moment to really look at the label on the clear bag, and is startled to note that the packet says Etoiles in bright yellow letters. The plastic crinkles in his grasp, red gloves loud against the cellophane.

 

“This is...star shaped pasta. Just like Sans used to want it.”

 

He sounds sad. A little broken. A little less whole. Frisk can feel the wisps of melancholy in the air, the orange tears pooling at the corner of his eye sockets tell them that he’s remembering many unpleasant things.

 

_The last conversation they had in person...he had cried, had said he didn't need Sans. He was an adult. And then he had accused his brother of being afraid. Afraid to move forward, to accept an opportunity for change and growth._

 

Those words echo in his skull, rebounding painfully in his thoughts. Because the last time Papyrus had really, truly spoken to Sans, the conversation had drifted into dark territory, dredging up resentments and old, broiling hurts. And Papyrus’ push for independence had lead to Sans tearing into space...out of the house, leaving behind a still steaming bowl of star shaped pasta.

 

And now Papyrus is the one who is afraid.  Afraid that he will never see Sans again. Afraid that the only communication they have would be over hastily arranged webcam sessions, words stilted and smiles wide.

 

Papyrus sniffles a little, wiping away his tears with the hand that is not holding the pasta. He smiles a bit when he feels a sudden warmth at his side.

 

Frisk does the best they can and wraps their thin arms around his waist. Though seven years have passed and they have grown into a lanky teenager, they still barely reach his ribcage. The wool of his gray sweater is scratchy against their cheek, but they cling onto him with a fierceness not belied by their thin frame.

 

Relief floods him. Hugs are good, always good, and welcome by the very nature of Paps’ Soul. It calms him enough that he can bring up his own arms to return the hug, and he laughs softly.

 

“Nyeh heh heh...Thank you, Frisk.”

 

But still where there is light, there is shadow, and Papyrus can’t help the trepidation that fills him when Frisk smiles up at him, red eyes gleaming bright and confident in a way he’s never been able to convey. He used to envy them a little, the ease with which they looked on at the world and demanded change. If Frisk needed something to happen, they just asked and the world turned and turned to give them everything. It's a little eerie.

 

Still, he trusts Frisk. Intensely so. And now more than ever, he clings to their guidance with an almost desperate zeal. Even if he knows now that it might all lead to the same end.

 

They had asked him. They needed him. He was needed. In a way no one ever had needed him before...

 

And for now, that was just enough.

* * *

 

Tentative is a fairly careful word. Even the syllables fall hesitantly...lightly on the tip of your tongue. Tentative is certainly the best way to describe your relationship with Sans at the moment.

 

You’re still being very careful, with every question you ask and every detail you divulge. Even when you two can sit together for hours on the plush green carpet of his living room and can retrace and discuss patterns across that cork board, you are still careful.

 

Your jokes are safe. You try and avoid contact, mostly because he seems to be really uncomfortable with it. It’s a little hard, because being tactile comes with your job description. Nurses touch and prod and poke to learn. But Sans edges away from you, and eventually you settle into a strange wobbly orbit around him. It consists of knocking lightly on his door in the evenings and taking him home on the nights he waits for you to close at the Bean Hole.

 

Still, it’s more than you ever hoped for, and you find yourself beaming a little more now. You hum songs as you fill out orders and cap drinks. You draw messy doodles on the side of cups for customers.

 

“You’re in a surprisingly good mood this week.” Catherine points out cheerfully. Her eyes pierce you from under her currently lavender bangs. It makes her eyes seem anything but soft, even if it stands out nicely against her brown skin. She hooks her thumbs behind the straps of her green apron, looking eerily smug. Her gaze shifts slyly to the corner of the cafe.

 

Despite yourself, you follow her glance, knowing full well who she’s looking at before you catch sight of him. The cafe is filled to the brim, but there are no more customers in line. Still, you know.

 

And there he is. Just like every Wednesday and Friday evening, seated in that same corner table near the planter brimming with azaleas. He has papers spread across every inch of the pale wood, stacked precariously near a delicate little plate that holds his slice of vanilla cake. He’s leaning casually back, balancing his chair on it’s hind legs while his own bony feet rest on the plush red chair opposite him. His worn sneakers are tapping to the soft bossa nova tunes drifting from the radio behind the counter.

 

The picture of ease, but you know that underneath all that humorous lacquer, there’s something chipped and aged and infuriatingly knowledgeable.

 

You feel a stab of annoyance. Your cheeks flood with warmth and you tear away your glance with an irritated huff. There’s no way you could even find yourself remotely attracted to him. He’s too much of a smug asshole, throwing assumptions left and right despite his earlier apology. So much has moved forward and yet, little has changed.

 

“Really, Catherine? I already went on a date with the last guy you suggested. Isn’t that enough?” You bite out, your tone just light enough not to be snappish. You whirl quietly to wipe down the metal counter in the back, fingers digging into the damp cloth.

 

She laughs a little, turning to hide the movement of her lips. She grabs the broom from the corner, using that as an excuse to cast a surreptitious glance around to make sure no one is eavesdropping. She snaps back just as quickly to look at you.

 

“Yeah...I’m sorry about Jerky McAsshole. But he seemed so nice….anyway, come on. That was like a good four months ago.”

 

“A very peaceful four months.” You grumble.

 

“Bee, you’re already spending so much time with your _vertebae_ , over there.” She hisses, accusation glinting harshly behind her mirth.

 

“He’s...we’re just…” You struggle a bit. You know you’ll get so much flak if you tell her you and Sans are neighbors....much less partners in a near impossible mission to stop a Groundhog Day loop. “He’s just helping me with a research project for school.”

 

The lie is imperfect. And Catherine is astute.

 

“You said he worked in the astrophysics department? How exactly can he help you with nursing research?”

 

“Uhh...I uh…He umm...dabbles in medical magic thingies too.”

 

Not a complete lie. Sans _had_ said he worked in an Astrophysics lab on campus. He also taught you some Soul science too, so there was that. It helped that he had collaborated with Dr.Alphys on some of her research.

 

Still, you’re such a terrible liar. You fumble with the towel in your hands, turning your attention to the now spotless chrome countertop set against the back of the kitchenette. You hope Catherine doesn’t notice how clean it is, because you keep wiping vigorously to avoid giving yourself away with that stupid smile that edges onto your face every single time you lie.

 

“ _Thingies?_ What are you, ten?” She laughs.

 

You laugh nervously in return, scrubbing at a very shiny spot on the counter. God, you really needed a better lexicon...or better yet a dictionary of lies.

 

“Okay, but riddle me this. Would it actually be so bad to date him? Is it because he’s a monster, Bee?”

 

You flush. This was not happening. Not today. Oh God, not today please. You quickly drop the towel into the dirty cloths bucket, and wash your hands in the sink.

 

“I-it’s not that at all. Monsters are chill. Humans are cool. I don’t care about that...it’s just he...he…doesn’t…”

 

You gesture vaguely, not really sure where you’re even going with this. Your thoughts are racing, your mind is hazy all the same because his roiling snickers echo in your mind. That deep, rolling baritone that spells nothing but hurt and hope. It’s all so complicated. You can barely consider him a friend, so for you to even entertain the thought of _liking_ him is _ribdiculous._

 

Your tentative thoughts make your movements stiff, and you don’t realize how low you’ve gestured until Catherine’s eyes light up and her full lips quirk into the widest grin.

 

“I mean yeah...I can see how that might be a problem. You're preferences are kind of picky. But there are other ways. Just because skeletons might not have di-”

 

 _“CATHERINE!”_ You squeak, loud and screechy enough for your voice to crack and for the quiet hum of conversation to halt.

 

Several customers startle. Some flinch in their chairs and some almost topple over drinks. You can hear that disparagingly familiar chuckling from the corner, and you quickly peek over the counter. You issue a quick apology, and fall to a crouch to organize the extra boxes of tea on the shelf below...where no one can see you.

 

“Not again.” You whine...a little too loudly. The laughter ripples gently through the cafe as your voice drifts from where you’re hidden. You seem to be making these outbursts a habit. And it’s all _his_ fault.

 

“seems like our barista is having a case of _deja brew._ ”

 

The laughter laps at your ears stronger now, giggles and snorts breaking like waves on a shore. But if you feel like you’re drifting, the familiar quip anchors you to a familiar feeling. It’s no golden hope. It thrums heatedly underneath your chest, beating steadily.

 

The thought of Sans making a joke at your expense fills you with IRRITATION.

 

The hum of conversation falls over the cafe again, and you carefully peek over the edge of the countertop, hefting an empty box of tea in the palm of your hand. You seriously consider throwing it at the corner table. His skull is shining ivory under the golden recessed lights, cresting invitingly over the fur of his blue hood. It would be so easy.

 

But he is a customer...no matter how annoying. And to some extent...he’s your freedom and he always defuses your mess-ups somehow. You also don’t know him well enough for this kind of play. Nervousness sets in and suddenly everything about him seems unfamiliar and sharp and odd. Your irritation fades and instead you heave a sigh of melancholy. Minutes pass and your legs feel cramped up by the time you’ve already alphabetized teas from Apple Tea to Zesty Sea tea.

 

Thankfully, everyone’s attention is diverted when a slew of customers comes in. University students shuffling in, wrapped in warm sweaters and looking dead on their feet. It reminds you that finals week is next week and that you might have to brush up on a few things. Just a little bit.  If there’s one thing the loops are excellent for, it’s for making sure that what you learn sticks. They’ve made you more observant...more aware of your surroundings than ever before.

 

Pity stirs you to pop up from your hiding place and give the standard greeting...just a little softer because a lot of them look like they’ll burst into tears if you talk to them too loud.

 

The hours pass this way and the novelty clock slices through the hours in the way it always does.

 

Catherine leaves earlier than you again, and she laughs when you feign anger and stick your nose into the air when she says good bye.

 

“You know, I was going to say _just because skeletons might not have dimples_ , Bee. But just...don’t knock things until you try ‘em, sweetie.”

 

She wags a finger at you and clicks her tongue affectionately as she hefts her yellow purse over her shoulder.

 

She waves bye to a few of the regulars and gives a particularly unsubtle thumbs up to a grinning Sans. He returns it with a lazy fervor that is truly awe inspiring in its paradoxical nature.

 

You’ve got a lot to learn before you master the art of looking like you don’t give a shit. He’s got it down to a science.

 

Unfortunately, in comparison to Sans, you’ve also still got a lot to learn when it comes to sneaking covert glances.

 

You didn’t notice the curiosity peaking in his glance when Catherine asked you about why you wouldn’t consider him. You didn’t notice the slightly surprised smile when you said it wasn’t because he was a monster...and you didn’t notice the slightly intrigued, if somewhat flushed expression when you shouted Catherine’s name.

 

And he didn’t notice the tiniest tendrils of an inkling of something, threading the tiniest roots to settle somewhere in the vicinity of his Soul.

 

Somewhere in him, he feels a swelling of the strangest emotions rise. Nothing makes sense. Nothing at all. Irritating as it is, he can't afford to deal with another set of complicated feelings.

 

But still, he edges himself just a little closer to you on the motorcycle when you ride home that night. He's even facing forward now. His magic still hums steadily, and it holds him close to the lines of your bike. But you can’t help but feel the tiniest bit relieved that he’s finally starting to let up on the boundaries.

 

Progress is sweet and it may be redundant, but hope is bright as lamplight.

 

For once the sky is clear and the smallest of stars wink in the inky sky...but the glint of blue in the corner of your sight is all the light you care for in this moment. You decide that tentative might be okay for now.

* * *

 

The rain is soft against the magnolia tree outside your window. The fading light is a faint orange, drifting from behind the wispy rain clouds. The sunset paints the inside of your living room a pleasant gold and you can’t help but relish the momentary peace.

 

You are slumped against your lumpy couch, draped in a soft yellow cardigan and stained sweats. Your last final had been today in the afternoon and you had finished well before the three hours were up. This time around, you didn’t even wait for Lindsey to finish up.

 

You just walked out of the classroom, eager to be back home and get ready for another night of playing “Where’s Frisk?” Plus, you’d accomplished your clockwork at the last clinical of the year spectacularly enough, that even Dr. Muscles had stopped calling you “Dark Cloud.”  A good end to your _seventh_ third year.

 

Admittedly, Sans has been a little more frantic these past few days, and you haven’t really felt all that comfortable bothering him. Loneliness has begun to settle within you again, unpleasant and thorny in your chest. It prickles and you feel a certain restlessness thudding within you.

 

You chalk it up to anticipation for what’s to come. You can only travel for three months...but something tells you you’re going to have to defer your last year of nursing school if you want to put an end to these loops. You’re erring on the side of caution...it’s the best thing you’ve got.

 

But the deviations aren’t done. You actions have consequences and they have rippled across the timeline to culminate in your phone buzzing in the next second. You can’t remember every single thing of every past time loop, but you sure as hell know that you’ve never had a Fine Fish Friend.

 

**From: Fine Fish Friend**

 

**[Hey there punk! It’s been a while! How’ve you been?]**

 

You blink a bit in surprise. The message is unexpected and a bit out of the blue. Undyne’s texts had been sporadic at best, and small talk dominated the conversations. It might have been your imagination, but sometimes sadness seeped into the messages. Whatever was going on must have been bad, but again, _not your business._

 

Professor Alphys had been back for a while now, looking thoroughly tired and sad. You gave her a generic coffee mug with _“If I’m Lost In Translation, Just Blame My RNA”_ on it. Just to show some appreciation for her. You tried not to make a big deal out of it, even when she burst into tears.

 

Thankfully, the Professor was accosted by the rest of the class. She really was a beloved professor and you found it easy to slip away through the throng of teary goodbyes and thank you’s.

 

Regardless, Undyne’s text is certainly surprising. Especially when it is quickly followed up by another.

 

**From: Fine Fish Friend**

 

**[Anyway...just letting you I’m in back in town for a few days to pick up Alphys. Brought a friend with me. We’re having dinner later today at a fusion place. You’re invited! :D]**

 

You look down contemplatively at your stained sweats...at the empty mugs littering your coffee table and finally, at the golden flowers standing proudly underneath the orange sunset on your dining table.

 

The something deep thudding within you picks up its pace, and you tell yourself to think things through for once...even as your fingers type out a response. There’s one person that comes to the forefront of your mind, clear and steady in this hazy insanity that has become your life.

 

**[Heya Fine Fish Friend! It’s been a while. I’ve been great! Done with finals!:) BTW, this dinner thing...would it be okay if I brought a friend? He’s super chill and really funny!]**

 

You hold your breath for her response, feeling a little rude for just asking. But Sans was fraying at the seams, and he had been spending too much time cramped up in that apartment of his these past few days...maybe a change of pace was all that was needed.

 

You don’t have to wait long.

 

**From: Fine Fish Friend**

 

**[YASSS! GLAD TO HEAR IT! ALSO, OF COURSE YOU CAN BRING YOUR “FRIEND” ;D]**

 

You wonder a little at the quotes around “friend” and that winky face...you groan, letting yourself fall sideways until your groaning into the arm of your sofa. Undyne is another Catherine. You really need to clarify things in the future.

 

But still you’re relieved that she’s so easily accepted. Somehow though, you knew she would. Undyne just seemed to ooze friendship.

 

And you had to admit, it would be fun for once to see how she interacted with your sweet dinosaur professor.

 

You quickly text back a thanks and she gives you the exact address and time. You figure you have about an hour to somehow convince Sans to come along and also to fix the mess that was your finals’ week fashion.

 

You decide to tackle the hardest task first and shuffle out of your apartment to knock on Sans’ door. You knock a lilting rhythm against the wood, something still left over from the early days of “closed door” and call for him.

 

“Come on, Sans! I know you’re in there! I heard you bouncing that stupid tennis ball against the wall earlier.”

 

You wait a few seconds, before the knob turns with a soft little click and the door swings open steadily to reveal the loveliest monster you have ever seen...and the years have certainly been kind to her.

 

“Oh...Oh hello, dear! Are you looking for Sans?” Comes the honeyed voice, warm and motherly and just so darn kind that you can’t help but feel like a small child again.

 

It doesn’t help that she’s so tall. Your head barely reaches her elbows and your neck is craned in a way that is painful to keep up. To be fair, you haven’t grown much since high school. Luckily, your mind is quicker than you think, and you duck your face in bashful wonder, letting your hair fall forward to hide it further. You nod your head silently to answer her question.

 

Queen Toriel is still everything you remember her to be from seven years ago. (Time loops need not apply, again.) She is still soft, creamy fur and gentle brown eyes, like bits of coffee swirling tastefully in a mug of milk. She is still understated royalty, even in her casual purple cardigan and black skirt ensemble.

 

And you...you hope you’ve changed enough that she won’t recognize you. Your hair is shorter from back then. Your face is thinner, your eyes dimmer. And god, do you regret wearing the yellow cardigan because it’s a color you used to wear almost everyday when you first saw her, sitting in your simple living room...having a cup of tea with your confidently at ease _mother_.

 

Memories shift like amber in your mind’s eye and they are painful and everything you wished to leave behind when you came to New Town. It never occurred to you that out of all the monsters Sans would be acquainted with, it would be the one who reminded you most of what you left.

 

“I...I just wanted to borrow some sugar?” You say in a small voice, clutching onto the hem of your sweater. Your heart is thudding in your ears and you pray that Sans doesn’t come to the door too.

 

_Stupid. Stupid. How could you be so bad at this?_

 

“Of course, my child! I’m sure Sans would be perfectly happy to lend you some! Let me go fetch hi-”

 

“AH! NO! Please don’t trouble yourself, Your Majesty!”

 

You bow your head in respect and raise it momentarily to mouth an apology. That’s a mistake. You’ve called her by her title. You know who she is...she knows that now. And she’s seen your face clearly. You can almost hear the recognition click in her mind.

 

She gasps, bringing up delicately large paws to her slim muzzle.

 

“Oh dear! Oh my goodness! What a pleasant surprise! ___, it’s been such a long time!” She exclaims, real joy braided into her exclamations.

 

You feel guilt sweep through you, because Queen Toriel has never been anything but kind and gracious with you. Even when you were an obnoxious little brat, barely a teenager and still clinging onto the hope that you could change who you were. (If anything is different...it’s the deep sadness in her gaze. The barely noticeable tremble of her voice...and something clicks in the back of your mind. Something so obvious, that you can’t help but want to call yourself ten kinds of idiot.) But her sadness is gentle and contained...but still, you want to make her feel okay...for old times’ sake.

 

So you resign yourself with a sigh, and plaster on a wide smile for her.

 

“Hello, Queen Toriel...it’s really nice to see you again!”

 

“Oh goodness! No need to be so formal, you silly little thing.”

 

And the dread curls heavy in your stomach, even as she pulls you into an all encompassing embrace. Your nose is buried in her sweater, and her arms are warm and inviting. She even smells like you remember her...cinnamon and butterscotch.

 

It hurts...it aches so dreadfully in your heart, that you can’t help feel some sort of relief when Sans comes up from behind her, looking dangerously cheerful as he looks at you. You feel a frisson of doubt when his sockets become saturated with an inky black, his pinpricks hard against the dark as they focus on you intently.

 

He leans against the door frame, confident and eerily at ease. His grin is wide.

 

You slowly pull away, sheepishly looking at him from around the Queen’s wide frame.

 

“Hi Sans.” You give a small wave, silently begging the ground to swallow you up. You don’t know why he seems so intimidating now, but you suspect it’s because you’ve stumbled on something intensely private...something he didn’t really want you butting into.

 

To be fair...he has too, and you hope that you two can come to some kind of agreement of silence on the matter after all this is said and done.

 

“heya kid...this is tori.” He gives a little set of jazz hands in the smiling Queen’s direction. Something in the way he says her name is so much softer than you’ve ever heard him speak. Even his expression is less intense, and the smile he gives her is genuine.

 

You definitely feel like you’ve stumbled onto something _private_.

 

“Ah...Yes...We’ve met.” You say awkwardly, stepping away further into the hall. The Queen...Tori...looks between you two with bewildered amusement.

 

“I’ve _goat_ to say this, kid...i’m hurt that you never told me you knew tori.” He feigns disappointment by placing a hand on his chest, bone clinking lightly with the tab of his zipper. His smile is a little sharper now that he’s looking at you, and you somehow feel all that zeal for inviting him melt away.

 

“I uh...It was nice to see you again, Queen Toriel. But I uh...really have to go m-meet my fish...I mean, uh meet my friend, for dinner.” You stutter out before Toriel can say another word.

 

And like the crazy person you are, you practically sprint the three feet from his door to yours and slam it shut behind you. You are breathless as you lean against the wood, pressing your hand to your mouth to stifle the string of obscenities that threaten to spill out.

 

That was a _Tori-mendou_ s failure. Something tells you it’s not your last one. And already, you feel that thudding telling you that somehow, this is okay.

 

Because another piece of the puzzle has fallen into place. Queen Toriel is Frisk’s mother...how you know that is a long story Sans is sure to want to hear. Frisk is the one resetting the loops. So many questions arise now, but you can’t bring yourself to ask them because you screwed it all up.

 

And you wonder how the hell everything has just coincidentally fallen so perfectly together.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IF YOU STILL HAVEN'T CHECKED OUT SINNABEE'S STORY, PLEASE GO READ. IT'S BARELY STARTED AND IT'S ALREADY SO MUCH FUN AND SO LIKEABLE. "What do Lo Mein You've Never Had Chinese Food?" is adorable. The Reader is a big dork and she works at a Chinese restaurant. ASGORE is also there, but it's a fun romp sure to bring a smile to your face.
> 
> AND I'M ALSO RECOMMENDING: "Patched" by Skainsmate...holy crap is this one fun read. Reader is a doctor with her own woes. A genius and kind, she saves Frisk and befriends everyone because of that. There are mysterious illnesses, quiet moments of bonding, LOTS OF FLUFF, and awesome plot. CHECK IT OUT.


	8. To Have a Night Sans Any Sense

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner is predictable and you are more than you know. You also catch Sans having a bad time...ah.
> 
> THANK YOU A MILLION TIMES TO MY BETA SINNABEE. WITHOUT HER, THIS CHAPTER WOULD BE A MESS.

Your heart is still racing by the time you’ve scrambled your way through your dimly lit apartment, hissing in agony when you stub your toe against the heavily packed backpack sitting on the floor near your bed.

 

 _“Oh crap, crap, crap!”_ You say through clenched teeth, the words tense as you limp your way awkwardly to your bathroom.

 

Everything seems to be conspiring to ruin your night. The pipes creak grossly as you turn on the faucet and you jump in surprise.

 

The cold water runs tepid and the warm water runs lukewarm. There's a moment where you almost give up, your fingers typing out “I'm sorry I can't make it.” on your phone.

 

But the little marker flashes accusingly in the text box and you find yourself breathing heavily. You place your phone on the side of the sink with indecision.

 

You splash your face, trying to get some clear thoughts. The tepid water is hardly bracing, but it helps. You take a good look at yourself in the mirror that doubles as a medicine cabinet. Your hands grip the edge of the sink, hard and shaking.

 

There’s that same grimace of yours, cheeks flushed and eyes dimmer than before. Your hair falls forward around your face, brushing past the skin there as you heave a shuddering breath. Your lips are parted in disbelief, and you look so frazzled that you have to laugh a bit at the ridiculousness of it all.

 

You are still reeling. Strings are tangling you up in knots long remembered, making your movements stiff and unconscious. This time loop has deviated so much, you have no idea what to do next.

 

But you’re going to take it in stride. You’ve resolved to do so. It’s just hitting you now how much you’ve come to rely on the predictability of your life so far. It was power and comfort at the basest levels and you feel a rush of shame. Realization dawns like golden warmth.

 

 _“I don’t want this.”_ You tell yourself with vindication. The slight lilt to your voice is masked by a confidence you haven’t felt in a while. And you find the statement to be true. You don’t want a pattern, however comfortable it is. However empowering, your friends...your patients...everyone had been slowly petrifying into set patterns. Despite your best efforts, you had come to view them all as boring, _predictable_.

 

And that’s the scariest thing about it...you hadn’t noticed until now.

 

A fierce sense of rebellion wells within you. You refuse to cower anymore. Time may have swallowed your existence whole, but you will not work within its confines any longer.

 

The expression that is etched on your face is still scared...but you’re a little relieved because despite it all, it’s still you. Even the faded yellow of your cardigan seems comforting instead of too attention-calling, as it had a mere five minutes ago.

 

Your fear isn’t gone, but you act anyways. You quickly send a text to Undyne, saying your friend wouldn’t be able to make it, but that you would still come.

 

You wash your face one more time, just for good measure. Make up is another hassle. You seem to yo-yo between loving it and hating it. This time you decide against applying anything heavier than a clinically hydrating lip gloss.

 

Somehow, you can hear Undyne’s voice at the back of your head.

 

_‘Nerd. Clinically hydrating.’_

 

That’s okay though. You’ve long accepted that you’re a nerd. And so, you find yourself getting ready without much else getting your “goat.”

 

“Sans would like that one.” You snort, but in the same breath dismiss the thought. “Which is why I shouldn't tell him.”

 

There's a strange sense of loss that twists through all the new found rebellion. You think something may have been lost between you two today. You can hardly tell what he was feeling, only that you at his front door was the last thing he wanted at the moment.

 

And the soft way he had said Queen Toriel’s nickname. The gentle manner in which he had smiled at her and genuinely looked proud to call her the Queen.

 

You realize this whole time that you've been thinking of Sans in a vacuum. Isolated and as if you were the only one who could ever be his friend. Who could really understand the struggle he's going through...but that's just the thing, isn't it?

 

You can hardly call each other friends with the way you don't communicate...with the way you both hide things and the way you don't even feel comfortable joking with him. You can hardly claim to know him either.

 

What does he like? What doesn't he like? Does he have a family? Did he ever have a hobby? Why did he choose astrophysics? What does he do in his lab? How was it that your paths never crossed back in Ebott Town? Who is he friends with? How long has he lived here for?

 

_Does he have a significant o-_

 

 _“NOT GOING THERE.”_ you chide yourself as you slip your head through a clean blue sweater with thin white stripes.

 

Maybe a few of those questions were too prying, but you feel a little justified in them because he asks questions like that all the time. Sometimes you answer thoroughly and sometimes not.

 

But tonight is going to be one without Sans for once and you've made up your mind to enjoy it.

 

Even when there's a knock on your door. It takes you of all three seconds to button up your new pair of dark wash jeans and sprint across the living room to turn the knob and wrench the door open. You know who it is before you’ve even looked at her.

 

“H-hello...Queen Toriel.” You breath hard, leaning a little against the open door. “I’m sorry for earlier.”

 

She seems a little surprised because one delicate paw is still poised in the air to knock again. A small indigo gift bag still swings slightly, hanging from her arm. And she gives a small titter of laughter, something relieved and highly amused all at once.

 

You give her a slow blink, waiting with wide eyes for her response.

 

She covers her mouth with both hands, laughter like spring flowering from beneath the gaps in her furred fingers.

 

“Oh...Oh ____,” She finally manages between breaks in her laughter. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

 

Her sad eyes are gentle and earnest as she gazes down at you.

 

Your mouth quirks into a genuine half-smile, nostalgia becoming more powerful as you settle within yourself. It’s a little disheartening to hear that you haven’t changed much when you’ve worked so hard, but then again...maybe you aren’t as warped and twisted by the loops as you had thought.

 

“Umm...it really is nice to see you again, Queen Toriel, but-” You start.

 

“Tori is perfectly fine, my child.” She cuts you off.

 

“T-Tori? But that’s so casual. I mean you’re the Queen of Monsters and you’re-” You trail off, gesturing to her stature with awe and reverence.

 

She sighs in exasperation and the way she rolls her eyes in good humor reminds you an awful lot of Sans and Undyne. You wonder if sassiness is something all monsters have or if you just have the good fortune to know all the sassy ones.

 

“While it pleases me that you still have manners, perhaps it would _Bee_ better if I said I preferred Toriel or Tori to my title.” She says gently, and the emphasis on ‘Bee’ lets you know that it’s a recent discovery for her.

 

The knowing look she gives you is harrowing, but you can’t say much of anything because she’s already talking again.

 

“Listen, my child. I am only here until tomorrow evening...a friend and I had come to check up on Sans...considering some very... _worrying_... circumstances.” She seems to fold into herself as she says this, bringing up her arms to cross them defensively in front of her. She looks so melancholy and hollow, that you can’t help but place a comforting hand on one of her arms.

 

It seems to bring her back to the moment, because soon she’s shuttered away her expression behind a tired smile.

 

“But while I am here, it would be nice to catch up again. Sans and I are going to dinner tonight with a few friends and I would like to extend an invitation.”

 

Her words are kind, but there’s a certain hesitance when she says Sans’ name. You don’t know what to make of it. You really want to accept her offer...for her sake more than anything. But you remember Sans’ hard smile and his dangerously sharp posture, warning you off of something.

 

It still hurts. You’ve been shut out by him completely this time, and the way he fondly spoke of Toriel still made you a lot more hesitant than you expected. The feeling is strange and you can’t quite place it as it has a hint of bitterness to it.

 

“Ah...I’m sorry Que-” Her glare makes you correct yourself. “I’m so sorry Toriel, but I really do have to meet my friends for dinner in less than an hour.”

 

You fold your hands politely behind your back, rocking back and forth on your bare feet as you wait for her response.

 

It’s not unexpected at all that she pulls you into another hug, your head buried into her purple sweater. You decide that this is the right time.

 

 _“I’m so sorry about Frisk, Toriel. I hope they’re okay.”_ You whisper and she seems to cling to you harder, trembling a little.

 

“Thank you, ___.” She sniffles, and her sadness is palpable.

 

When she pulls away, you politely pretend not to notice her wiping away her tears. Even doing that, she still looks so dignified. But the pain is real and a missing child is not something to be forgotten.

 

“Well then...If you cannot come, I understand. But please take this.” She says as she removes the gift bag dangling from her forearm and offers it to you smoothly. The smell of butterscotch cinnamon wafts deliciously towards you, and you feel your eyes water with grateful tears.

 

“T-thank you so much, Toriel. Really I...I...thank you.” Is all you can manage without your voice breaking.

 

She merely waves you off, gives you one final hug and turns to leave.

 

“Toriel, wait.”

 

She pauses expectantly, turning to look at you with a patient smile.

 

One last question jumps from your lips before you can stop it. You clutch the bag closer to you, taking comfort from the warmth.

 

“How...how are they?”

 

Your mouth feels dry, your tongue leaden and even the deep thudding that keeps you going seems to stutter.

 

Toriel knows who you’re talking about without you having to clarify. She gives you a look full of sympathy, and you hate that you squirm because pity is the last thing you wanted from her. But she doesn’t wait too long in answering.

 

“Your family is well. But I think, and forgive me if I’m being intrusive, you should ask them yourself, _Bee_...Don’t let your words fail you or your loved ones, because one day...no matter how much you want, you won’t be able to reach them...and that is the worst feeling.”

 

Guilt sweeps through you as she gives you one last gentle smile and walks smoothly down the hallway and out the door that leads to the parking garage. You vaguely wonder if Sans is going to take a shortcut to the dinner, but it’s just that. Vague.

 

Because your thoughts are still buzzing with the strangeness of today and hollow regret makes you edge slowly back into your apartment, shutting the door silently behind you.

 

The pie is left to cool off on the dining table, right next to the drooping golden flowers.

* * *

 

The ride to the magic fusion restaurant is fairly uneventful. The evening is cool and the last wisps of sunset are beginning to fade across the wide horizon. You dig your chin a little further into the folds of your yellow scarf. The brine of the sea is more evident now, a breeze sweeping inland and weaving through the city.

 

It’s still the middle of the week, so traffic is heavy and you can see from underneath your visor that everything seems to be filled to bursting. Students just finishing finals are out to celebrate and downtown has become more alive than ever. The lights flicker past, streaming across your vision and you feel a little odd trying to maneuver your bike without a passenger.

 

_(You tell yourself it’s freedom you are experiencing, not loneliness or hurt.)_

 

You arrive just on time, parking in the back of the nice looking establishment. The the vivid purple neon sign comes into view as you round the corner for the front entrance. The word “Abracadabra” gleams invitingly, and you have to wince a little at the tackiness of the name.

It seems a little cheapening of magic to reduce it to something so gimmicky, but that’s the way it is with monsters and magic. Sometimes people, monsters or humans, just like to cash in on novelties. There are bigger problems to tackle, so you brush off the faint discomfort.

 

There’s a line well outside of the door, people in warm sweaters and carrying umbrellas still waiting to be seated. It seems like gimmicky does pay off sometimes. You’ve heard of this place, just never found it interesting enough to try it. Several restaurants like this have popped up all over the place, boasting menus that combined the best of magic food with human recipes for an extended palette.

 

You’ve tried magic food. It certainly is an experience the first time you try it, always leaving a faint bubbly sensation on your tongue. The Bean Hole carries some magical items, mostly for customers who can’t really process the heavy human food. Even the vanilla cake you and Sans’ so love is baked with magic into it’s fluffy constitution. So you can’t be blamed if you’re not exactly awed by the reviews for this place.

 

Regardless, you are immensely glad that Undyne had the foresight to reserve a table. The hostess is a pretty little Madjick whose tattered wide brimmed hat seems to be as much a part of their outfit as it is a part of the restaurant's theme. They don’t speak very loudly, but somehow you understand their wispy small voice enough to follow them as they float elegantly in front of you, carrying a menu for you in their tiny hands.

 

The interior has a vaguely Hogwarts’ feel, with cherry wooden dining tables and wine colored cushions for the booths. Real floating candles with differently colored flames provide atmospheric lighting that is somehow just as bright as normal electrical lamps would be.

 

It is filled to bursting, with busboys and waiters moving smoothly through the aisles, friendly chatter and noise making the place seem almost homey. There’s that faint prickling sensation that raises the hairs on the back of your neck.

It’s magic all right.

 

As you approach the large table next to one of the wide windows, you can already make out an enthusiastic Undyne waving hello at you, the dark leather of her jacket squeaking audibly. You smile wide, humorously noting that she almost knocked her elbow into a flustered Professor Alphys...who also happens to waving at you, just a lot more subtly.

 

It’s a little odd seeing her without her heavy lab coat, only dressed in a cute little polka dotted dress. Still, it’s even more charming when you wave on back and she appears to wave even more enthusiastically.

 

 _“HEYA BEE, over here!”_ Undyne calls, her smile bright against her wonderful teal scales.

 

The redundancy of the statement is nullified by the earnest happiness with which she seems to greet you. The Madjick is stifling huffing laughter, and already you feel your earlier hurt and bitterness fading away.

 

You feel several sets of eyes on you, and it hits you then just how ridiculous your life is turning out to be...because you shift your gaze to look at the other two silent occupants at the table and there they are.

 

Toriel seems to be frozen between stunned amusement and genuine joy at seeing you again, if the laughter she’s muffling behind her paws is anything to go by.

 

And Sans...Sans seems to have a look of abject horror, his grin plastered onto his face and you’re pretty sure you’re mirroring that same expression because you freeze mid step, just a few feet away from him.

 

He was sitting facing away from you, on the outermost corner of the booth, right next to Toriel. Undyne’s waving had brought his attention to you. His look is too shocked to be hard. You’ve caught him in a moment of vulnerability, much like earlier and you feel your index finger pointing to him and your mouth opening up-

 

“Y-you?!”

 

“you?”

 

You both say it in the same way. His deep rolling baritone shooting out like an accusation and you’re voice pitching into a ridiculously high tone.

 

But the scene is familiar and that same feeling of rebellion wells up in you and you let your face devolve into one of calm contemplation, a half smile playing at the corner of your lips. Despite your heart in your throat, and your fear curling upwards, you find yourself able to speak before he can.

 

“Yep. And then it goes v, w, x, y, z.”

 

Revenge is sweet on your tongue.

 

Laughter ripples through the area around you and you feel your cheeks warm when you realize that the two tables next to you had been listening to the exchange. Sans’ smile stays frozen, but the lights in his eyes dim a little and you feel so much better than before.

 

You congratulate yourself on delivering that line coolly and then quickly slide onto the extra chair that’s been placed at the edge of the table for you. The Madjick hands you the menu, and you might be imagining it, but you think they might have winked at you.

 

Toriel seems to have trouble stifling her laughter as she glances between you and a still very silent Sans. You simply mouth a quiet hello and she has to stifle some more of her laughter before she can greet you properly.

 

“It seems you were able to make it to dinner after all,___. I am glad to see you again!” She says earnestly, and you can tell she really means it.

 

You laugh sheepishly, tapping a nervous rhythm into wood.

 

“I promise, I had no idea this was the dinner you wanted to invite me to.”

 

“so Undyne was the fish you had to meet?” Sans finally perks up, his tone a little more subdued than it usually is. You feel a rush of pity for him, but quickly stifle it when you remember all the times he’s humiliated you at work.

 

You nod, not really trusting your voice to work for him right now. The reality is finally setting upon you, and your nerves are winding up to fill you with trepidation. You are in the very last place Sans wants you to be. He’s been very clear about that. So you avoid looking at him and turn to talk to Undyne. You can still feel his eyes boring into you, but you pay them no mind, pulling strength from your small victory earlier.

 

“Good one, Nerd. You got him so bad!” Undyne elbows you in the ribs, and then casually drapes an arm around Alphys. She brings her close, pride etched deep into her crooked grin. “I know you’ve already met, but this is outside of class. So no nerd talk, kay?”

 

“H-hello again, Bee. It’s very nice to see you here!” The professor says sweetly. “I used the mug while grading final exams.”

 

The fact that she remembered your gift from the dozens that she received and the fact that she felt the need to tell you is endearing. You never really took the time to get to know her outside of class, and regret fills you deep.

 

“I'm so happy, Professor Alphys.” You smile broadly, and you reiterate your thanks to her for being such a wonderful teacher.

 

She devolves into a series of bashful denials, until Undyne turns and places a swift kiss to the crown of her yellow scales and then she goes quiet, stewing in what appears to be True Love.

 

You think to yourself that the awkwardness is so worth it, and the evening proceeds in a somewhat less awkward manner. The Madjick returns with a notepad and you order last. You ask for a plate of spaghetti and magic meatballs, telling yourself that pasta this late is okay and that this is a reward for finals week being over.

 

For some reason, everyone seems to go still, looking at you with mixed expressions. You're not really sure what's going on, but Toriel seems to be shooting concerned glances at Sans. Undyne and Alphys have stopped their conversation and you can feel Sans’ stare pulling you in again.

 

And there it is. That heavy pit in your stomach. His disappointment flaring hard and fast towards your vicinity and your stomach roils with discomfort.

 

Suddenly, he stands up, placing his bony hands with a heavy clack on the table.

 

“i just remembered something for work. sorry guys. gotta go. see you to-marrow.”

 

His smile is...strained? It's a terrible expression and his left eye is already starting to flicker blue and yellow. The pun falls flat, and Toriel seems to understand because she merely gives him a gracious smile and tells him good bye.

 

Undyne seems to protest, but Alphys quickly stops her.

 

“Bye Sans...I'm sorry you'll miss dinner. Good luck with lab stuff.” she mutters and then it's your turn.

 

He turns to look at you and you don't know why, but no one else seems to feel that anger, that disappointment heavy in your chest. It's grip is cold, much too cold, and you can't bring yourself to do much but say a quiet goodbye. Your eyes are downcast.

 

You apologize, but he's already shuffled down the aisle and near the restrooms. You figure he's going to shortcut out in privacy.

 

The Madjick is left to pick up where they left off, awkwardly crossing out Sans’ order and repeating the dishes just to make sure they got it right. They gather up the menus fast.

 

It floats off in a hurry once it's done, too eager to leave.

 

Undyne tries to pick up the conversation, and Toriel and Alphys seem rather eager to reciprocate...but you keep staring at the corner where Sans had disappeared around.

 

It felt so wrong. None of the disappointment had been directed at you. None of the anger had been for you this time...but it had hurt so much and you wanted to help. He was your friend. Your time travel buddy.

 

And so you pull your napkin from your lap and neatly folded it on the table. You don’t even think as you babble out.

 

“Sorry guys. I have to go home too. I forgot to feed my clothes.” You notice the strange, disbelieving looks Undyne and Alphys give you, but Toriel seems to be looking at you in deep contemplation. “I mean...uh...feed my clothes into the dryer. You know, if you leave them too long in the washer, they start to smell bad...so uh...yes.”

 

You hastily reach into the pocket of your jeans and pull out a wad of bills, more than enough to pay for your spaghetti. Everyone is too stunned to protest, and you know they would have if they weren’t too busy admiring your incoherence.

 

“I see.” Toriel says, and then she seems to sigh in acceptance. She glances up at you, earnestness and warmth make the plea in her voice clear. “Well then, child. Please take good care of your clothes. They are very important. And I fear they might have already been left alone for too long.”

 

Your eyes widen in understanding. She’s asking you to take care of Sans.

 

You don’t know how you’re going to do it when he keeps shutting you out, but still you mean it entirely when you smile and nod.

 

“I promise I’ll do my best.”

 

You give Undyne and Alphys awkward one-sided hugs as they’re still in their seats, still trying to understand what’s going on. But you’ve already wasted too much time here.

 

“Bye Undyne! Text you later. Bye Professor Alphys! Have a safe flight, all of you!”

 

It’s all a blur to you after that. You just know that the city passes by you and the lighting is golden and by the time you’ve come to your sense, you are wringing your scarf in your hands in front of his door.

 

It’s shut, and you knock once.

 

“Sans. It’s me...I…”

 

What do you say? You want him to talk but you don’t want to pry. You want to do something, but you don’t want to be scared. Contradictory emotions play tennis with your thoughts and you find that the words don’t come out easily at all.

 

You had no plan for this, no preparation.

 

You knock again.

 

“I’m here. _Please open the door._ ” Desperation laces your voice, but you don’t shout because you don’t want anyone else but him to hear you. The yellow of your scarf is harsh in your sight, but it anchors you to this moment.

 

You knock again. No answer.

 

“ _You’re not alone. Let me help you.”_ It’s a whispered plea, and you lay your head the wood with a dull thud.

 

“I made a promise.”

 

But nobody came.

* * *

 

You dream that night of a field of gold. Vast and empty save for the blooms waving in a silent vacuum. The sky is just as full of stars as the field is full of golden flowers. Yet somehow, the petals shine brighter than the stars and they beckon and call and you want to pick one of them.

 

It’s so tempting, they smell sweet and you cup one in the palm of your hands. Your thumbs trace the veiny petals as you kneel in the damp soil. You move your face down, lower and lower to whisper a wish into the center, but something stops you.

 

A skeletal hand on your shoulder is heavy and negating. You turn to look at who it belongs to and you can’t make out their features. It’s as if the stars have a coalesced across their face, hiding it behind a swathe of shimmering silver and the rest of them is a writhing mass of black...darker yet darker.

 

You don't know what to feel. Their intent is hardly tangible and their disembodied hand has chilled the skin of your arm. A swell of irritation shoots through you and you try and ignore them in favor of turning back to the tempting blossom in your hands.

 

But their fingers dig painfully into your shoulder and you give a sharp little gasp, whirling angrily to snap at them. The silvery static shifts across his face, reminding you painfully of buzzing wings and little bees.

 

The sound is annoying and familiar, and you think you can catch a glimpse of orange through the shifting black and silver. But it's just that, a glimpse.

 

You're about to ask them what they want, when a wind begins to howl and swallows up your words. And it takes with it everything.

 

The static swirls a bit, dancing in time with the golden flowers. It all looks a little sad.Then the fierce wind grows stronger and the specter dissipates, nothing more than inky dust carried away by the tempest.

 

The wind tears through the peaceful melancholy, destroying all the fragile blooms until you’re left in a barren field. The flowers are dying. Even the flower in your hands is wilting, and the wind grows stronger. You look up to the sky to see it torn in half. It’s a gaping darkness, solid and bleak.

 

And it scares you so much. You find yourself petrified by the gaping darkness. But something thuds heavily in you and you catch a glimpse of a glittering gentleness that sails easily through the dark and the wind before you wake with a jolt.

 

The sound of wind is still strong and piercing. It’s a reality and your heart is loud in your ears and you’re up amongst the mound of blankets you’ve buried yourself under. You feel a faint pang in your chest, dull pain threading through.

 

The room is flooded in cerulean light, the shadows lengthening and Sans looks frightening. He looms large at the foot of your bed, his anger fully realized and mingling with the wind that spirals from the gaping hole behind him.

 

Your voice catches in your throat. You clutch at your ratty night shirt, vaguely aware just how underdressed you are. But there’s too much emotion here for that. You don’t cry. You can’t. It hurts too much to do even that.

 

And then, his eye shifts, entirely focused...entirely burning...on you.

 

**“W h y?”**

 

You shudder. He sounds utterly inhuman, a slight harshness to his tone making you want to run away. But you can’t because he is hurting and he is lost and his Soul is fraying. Pity floods into your gaze and his smile grows darker, more angered.

 

You know he doesn’t want it. He doesn’t want any of it. But he’s been alone for so long, you can’t blame him if it’s the only thing he knows. You’re crying again, your eyes still red and irritated from falling asleep late.

 

And you see the gaping hole behind him growing closer and closer, ready to swallow him whole. He’s going to leave again. He’s running away. And selfishly...you can’t let him.

 

You lunge forward, scrabbling on all fours across your bed and throwing your arms around him before you can think anymore. Even kneeling on the mattress, you’re not taller than him and you bury your head into the crook of his neck. Your cheek rests against the voluminous fur that crests the hood of his jacket, and you stay there, gripping tight and locking your hands around his neck. You shut your eyes against the stinging wind, feeling your hair whip across your face and neck.

 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I don’t know what to do. But I’m here. _You’re not alone, Sans!”_ You say desperately. And there’s a long painful second where the wind is still roaring and he’s not moving.

 

And then...and then, blessedly, you feel his phalanges fist themselves into the folds of your shirt, hard and sad and gripping you like a lifeline.

 

His head rests on your shoulder. The wind stops and you peek upwards to just catch a glimpse of Space knitting itself back together. It’s strange watching it, but you find that it’s better to focus on that than Sans’ tears that are running down your neck, seeping warm and large into your shirt.

 

He lets out a ragged sob, and you can’t do much but move one hand to cradle the back of his skull gently. It’s hot and smooth and you place your fingers at the base, your pinky just touching the jutting vertebrae that trail down.

 

It’s strange. You’ve never been this close to him, not even when he'd been helping you through your panic attack. But it’s still just as painful, because he’s so emotive. Something in you reciprocates the feeling of loss and sadness and hurt and tiredness.

 

The room is dark again, and it’s just your quiet whispers of comfort and his harsh sobs now. Your eye catches the vague shape of your backpack on the floor, already packed and waiting. The path is clear to you.

 

That thudding something drives harder and harder, spiraling forward within you. You turn your head to look at him, your lips are so close to his temple. It would be so easy to move that extra space, place them gently on the bone.

 

But all you can do is whisper hoarsely, persevere through the onslaught of emotions that comes from the both of you.

 

“Sans...let’s leave. _Right now_. Let’s go find them.”

 

He only nods, his head rubbing against the damp material of your shirt. But you can’t find yourself to think much else other than that. You are numb. You are exhausted.

 

And you’re ready for this...to move forward.

 

The moment lasts for a few more seconds. The alarm shows 5:00 A.M. by the time Sans has gathered himself up, looking thoroughly spent. The sky is turning velvety purple, the stars dissipating into the folds of the night. Soon it will be dawn.

 

He apologizes, letting himself fall onto your mattress with a bitter laugh. He lays there, among the pile of blankets and does that same half lidded stare. But it is different. Better than before. He looks at you, as if seeing you in a whole new light. There’s a wonder there that hadn’t been there since you first met him.

 

“sorry, bee. didn’t mean to waste your Time.”

 

His voice is soft...softer than it had been with Toriel. You just give him a hesitant smile.

 

And it’s all just barely enough to begin.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OHHH BOY, GASTER SHENANIGANS? YES. HE'S HERE. He's important. So are those golden flowers, huh? AND GOSH, really Reader, close enough to kiss him? Naw honey, slow burn.
> 
> BUT if anyone's confused about Sans' anger at this point, it'll be explained next chapter


	9. To See Things From His Perspective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the events of last chapter through sans' eyes and the aftermath of the understanding. also known as chapter before you actually leave town. THANK YOU TO SINNABEE FOR BEING AN AMAZING FRIEND AND BETA. PLEASE VISIT HER TUMBLR FOR ALL KINDS OF AMAZING ART! 
> 
> ah also music rec: Better You by David Choi really fits this chapter.

To say that Sans is a very prepared person would be erroneous. To say that he is fiercely protective of his routine would be more correct. The loops have made him into this, petrifying him until he bends into a pattern that suits Time. Space is powerless here. No matter what he tries.

 

It’s really hard to surprise him in moments like these, but boy did Tori knocking on his door throw him for a loop. He makes a record speed analyses. The solution to which buzzes at the back of his mind as he stares at her, standing in his doorway, two pies in hand and an almost angry expression on her face. He realizes who’s to blame.

 

It’s you.

 

You had consumed his evenings and flitted in and out of his usual schedule with such alacrity. You and the godforsaken changes that had rippled through, rising and growing to make a once clear surface blur into a labyrinth of hazy impressions. He hadn’t answered Alphys’ texts for several nights in a row...because he had been on the floor of his living room, winding string and looking up more articles with you.

 

Your fear, your questions, and your prying had made him so unaware of keeping to his usual actions. And so because he didn’t answer Alphys’ texts, she had called Tori. And if there’s one thing he’s learned about having people that care, it is that it complicates things until life is more confusing than the concept of multiple infinities.

 

So here he stands, hands shaking and eyes wide in disbelief. A sheepish smile on his face as he steps back, Tori already sweeping in with that gentle commanding presence of hers.

 

“heya, tori. nice of ya to stop pie.”

 

He knows before the pun is even out that it won’t work. Toriel merely frowns, giving an incredulous once over at his considerably less messy apartment. (He blames you for that too. You keep absently picking up things and putting them away when you become agitated, which happens a lot when you’re reminded just how dangerous this whole endeavour is. But he won’t drag you in blind...not with this.)

 

“Sans...you’re not okay.” Tori says, placing the pies on the counter that runs in between his kitchen and the living room. She brushes a few tufts of fur behind her long, pretty ears and her dark eyes are thoroughly concerned.

 

And her words tear through him as easily as he does through Space. She’s always been good at that. She’s also always been good at burying her own pain, pushing it down so that she can take care of others.

 

Sans knows her too well. He feels his Soul lurch, a few tendrils seeking out a shared pain.

 

“you’re not so good yourself. are you sure it’s me you should be worrying about right now?” He says pointedly, struggling to keep himself together. Struggling to keep from just bursting forth with everything, letting truth stream from behind his false smiles. It’s so easy with you to stop himself from doing that. But Tori is Tori. His sovereign, his pun-buddy, his best friend. 

 

But then he remembers. He’s told her once before, way back in the Underground. She had believed him, once upon a time.  Happiness like none he had ever experienced marked that loop. He wasn’t alone.

 

He had even started working on his projects again, fiddling with Time and Space and theories...he told himself it was out of curiosity. Told himself this time would be okay. He still kept his promise. He had kept Frisk safe, let them sleep on his couch for months on end, read them and Paps a bedtime story...His routine had become solidified. Tori had even opened the door, occasionally sharing a pie and some good jokes while Frisk clung to her like a baby bones.

 

And then the loop had RESET again. 

 

And the break in his Soul had been too painful to bear again. His sanity was fraying. So hitting Toriel where it hurts, making her go away, is the best he can do. He can’t involve her in this. The stakes are so much higher than before.

 

There’s something sinister underneath all these loops.

 

Still, the hurt that crosses her expression, that mars her gentle concern fills him with guilt. Immensely so, but again, she’s always been good at perception, at making the toughest decisions.

 

He is nothing like her in that respect. She always decides in favor of those that need her most. She chose to protect the fallen humans. She chose to let Frisk go out of the Ruins. She chose to take up the title of Asgore’s Queen once more just so she could have more power to help the monsters Aboveground.

 

He’s always said that someone who loves puns that much has got to be full of Integrity.

 

So there she stands, in that regal blue-purple she so loves to wear. Her gaze is piercing and yet, she is strong and willful as she pulls him into an all-encompassing hug. And he feels the edges of his eye sockets burn against her shoulder, wisps of blue licking at the tops of his cheeks and he brings up his hands to grip onto her, trembling...so close to breaking.

 

“It’s okay, Sans. I miss them too. We will find them. They will be fine.” She says with such confidence. 

 

She’s so lucky she has no memories of their deaths...of the tattered striped sweater they bring back...of the dusty red scarf. No sign of their Soul.

 

And this anchors Sans back to his reality. He cannot afford to be so weak. He’s been alone this whole time. What good would breaking now do? None at all. 

 

(Still, the thought of your smiling face. The thought of you asking “Where do we start?” makes him hesitant. And angry...so angry.)

 

So he pulls away. He jokes. He tells Tori he’s fine. That he’s waiting for news. That he’s coping by busying himself with work...which is never entirely a lie.

 

Research is intensive, but he’s been doing enough to explore the mechanics of the RESET’s. It’s a blessing and a curse, to learn more every loop and to be unable to do much about it.

 

The piles of publishings on his coffee table back up his excuse. And a few more jokes and a promise to go to dinner allay her worries enough that she backs off.

 

Everything is going fine. He’s even letting himself relax a little, to relish in Tori’s presence. It’s been more than ten years since he’s last seen her. (Time loops apply...they always do.)

 

So she commandeers his kitchen. Makes him something that is NOT golden flower tea and places a heartily sized slice of pie on the coffee table in front of him. They make small talk, avoiding everything to do with Frisk and Papyrus, coming to a silent truce.

 

Then there’s a knock. Before he can even rouse himself from the comfortable slump he’s got against the couch, Tori has already opened the door.

 

“Oh...Oh hello, dear! Are you looking for Sans?” Comes Toriel’s pleasant inquiry. 

 

And then there’s your voice, stuttering and faltering and just plain old noisy. It shatters his calm, ruins the illusion he’d been lulling himself into. And Toriel suddenly fades away back into the bleak fabric that is his life. His looping life that was once a pattern so predictable. 

 

He forgets that it is you who has brought Tori to him once more. He forgets that it is you who gave him hope and that it is you who offered help so earnestly.

 

All he understands is that he can’t take much more of this unpredictability. He is fearful of you, of what you will change. It may be good and it may be so terrible that he’ll be wishing for another RESET when you’re done dusting his plans into a smattering of puzzle pieces that make no sense.

 

It is fear more than anything that twists his smile into something sharp. It is fear that makes his eyes bleed black and make him interrupt.

 

It is fear that grips him when Toriel recognizes you and you know her. He doesn’t know anything about you, he realizes. He’s never bothered to ask too much...he’s been thinking of you as a part of the loop...as a part of Time itself. You’re merely a cog that's come loose. You'll find your place again once the year is done. You'll forget.

 

He’s forgotten all of the above, all of the good you've brought. But it doesn’t matter, because self-preservation is an instinct all too hard to ignore and he’s scared that you’ll find out more about him than he wants you to.

 

But most of all, he’s scared that you’ll find him weak and that you will leave to find your own way...he’s scared that you’ll find out he has no idea what he’s doing.

 

And so he speaks, dangerous and eerie…letting his magic seep into your skin until he sees his fear reciprocated in those wide eyes of yours.

 

“M-meet my fish...I mean meet my friend for dinner.” You stutter out, eyes darting between him and Toriel with such obviousness that he might have laughed had it been any other time.

 

He is successful. You run away and hide behind your door. Toriel seems bewildered. He can’t do much to stop her from going to check up on you.  All he can do is wait for her to come back.

 

“sorry kid.” He whispers as he clutches at his chest. His golden hope wilts, threading thorns in near retaliation. He wonders if things will ever be okay.

 

He doesn’t know anything.

* * *

 

 

Dinner is a disaster. He thought he could handle it. He thought he could see you, among his friends that you somehow know. Your timing is fucking perfect. Your actions are like cogs spinning easily, moving you with precision into aspects of his life he thought were safe.

 

He doesn’t want this to be personal. He wants as little of the time loops to remain a part of his life as possible...and you are a part of the time loop. His anomaly...his not-red-Souled bumbling almost-friend. He’ll cut you out by the end of this. Because that is all that this must be.

 

“I’ll have the umm...spaghetti and magic meat balls, please.”

 

Shit.

 

He feels pain thread through him. Again, unbidden and entirely not your fault, he feels his anger and irritation flow in your direction. He can only vaguely register your concern, your fear, the way you take it all...accept it all as if it really is all your fault...as if you could have known not to order the one thing that would hurt him the most.

 

But you can’t have known...he sees your innocence in your concern. 

 

He leaves with a crappy excuse.

 

And for not the last time, his hurt is more than enough to hurt you in turn.

* * *

 

He hears you knocking. He almost opens the door. You say you made a promise. So he doesn’t.

 

He hates promises.

* * *

 

 

But he hates this life even more. He hates that you're just a wall away. Three feet between your door and his. Three years and ten loops living next to each other and not once did he ever think that you would be what he needed.

 

And you are sad and broken and trying so hard to gain so little. You're a pitiful little cog, spinning round and round to find your place in a clock that's forgotten that you exist.

 

But if you're a cog, what is he?

 

The answer scares him more than anything and he needs answers. Why would you care so much? Why would you offer to help when he can't gives you as many answers as he does questions?

 

Why do you knock on his door and promise?

 

Why do you care about  _ him? _

 

He blindly slices through Space, the wind howling invitingly as he gazes with a blazing eye into the abyss. He's not surprised to see your bedroom, with all its subdued yellows and blues.

 

He's not surprised to see you, tear tracks on your cheeks, the moonlight throwing your disconcerted sleep into a sharp relief.

 

He is surprised by himself, letting the space swallow him whole, hand outstretched as the thudding that usually comes from you drones louder and louder.

 

It beckons and quickly, before he can feel Space reject your very proximity, he lurches through. You’re already awake. Scared. Waiting. Your wide eyes reflect the blue of his magic, eerily calm in the rest of your stricken expression. 

 

Everything he’s feeling, everything he wants to say quiets down to one thing. Sadness and fear and anger gluing his words to the roof of his mouth until all he can say is-

 

**“W h y?”**

 

Why is so vague a question. But you seem to understand that he’s asking many things with one word.

 

And he finally breaks when you all but crawl on your hands and knees to him and latch on with a strength he didn't know you could have.

 

You say you don't know. You apologize for something that was never your fault. You say that you're here.

 

And you are. You are here, solid and real and everything that anchors him to a blind future. He can only trust that you won't break him more than you already have. Guilt peaks through the swirl of his emotions and he cries into your shoulder.

 

Later, he might try and regain some sort of dignity, but he is too tired to pretend. And you're too tired to do much more than ACT.

 

“let's leave….right now…” 

 

Your words come distantly, shining brightly yellow….or maybe something darker in his blue haze and he finds himself unable to speak. But he musters enough energy to nod against your neck, breathing in your sharply fresh smell of golden flowers and antiseptic from the hospital. Of coffee and rain and the rich, strange scent of ozone from your bike.

 

You are his, in this moment in time. His to lean on, to hope with, to break for. And he is yours.

 

The thought is oddly liberating and constricting all at once. He is not alone. That is clear. But his path is also inextricably yours as well, and you seem to be all too willing to follow him into whatever dangerous mess he’s already wrapped up in.

 

He let's himself fall onto your bed, acceptance and resignation clear in the way he sighs.

 

He doesn’t know if you’re doing it out of genuine desperation or the kindness in your heart. Still, there’s a tenacity in your actions and in your words that make him lift up his gaze to stare up at you from where’s he’s lying. 

 

His eyes are soft. His light dimming with a weak fondness.

 

The sun will rise inexorably, gold seeping in through your thin curtains, but you will still be here and the world will still turn. And for now, that's just enough to keep him going.

* * *

 

 

He amusedly watches you work about your apartment in a frenzy. Your backpack is already packed, but it seems there’s a few last minute things you need to pick up.

 

“Hold on! I’m looking for some gear.” You call from inside the walk-in closet. There’s the sound of a few items falling with heavy thuds. Your whispered curses cause him to smile a little more.

 

He’s already ready. He’s been ready since the first day of the loop. He always is. 

 

So he pushes down on your mattress and lifts himself up with a weary groan. He takes this time to look at your room. He’s never been in here before. Every time he’s been inside your home, you’ve kept him in the living room. He’s done the same to you. It was just another barrier to separate you from each other.

 

And now that he’s here, he notes that it’s a lot more personalized than the outside would belie.

 

Your comforter is predictably floral, bright and golden. Your curtains are creamy and slightly sheer. You have a few stuffed animals pushed up against the small headboard, piled among a bunch of teal throw pillows.

 

There’s a small desk against the wall across from your bed. Sticky notes plague your desk lamp, littering the wall behind as well. A few of the books that line the back are dusty from disuse. There’s one sprawled open, notes filling up the margins and small doodles snaking around the corners.  He cringes a little when he sees that you dog ear your pages. He may be lazy, but at least he uses a bookmark. 

 

He moves languidly to your dresser. A few picture frames crowd there among the sparse knicknacks. They are covered in that same layer of dust your books are. He cranes his neck around the corner into the small passageway that leads back out to the living room to see if you’re still preoccupied. The light outside is still pearly gray, and he can just make out your hunched form, kneeling in the doorway of the closet, sorting through a pile of clothes.

 

He relaxes and lets himself be nosey for a bit more.

 

There’s a couple in one of them. The woman is pretty in a stern way, her mouth set into a small grin. Her face is vaguely familiar, but he can’t quite place where he’s seen her before. The only thing he can really say you share with her is the color of your eyes, so it can’t be you that she reminds him of. 

 

He deems this not important enough to waste time on, and moves on.

 

The man is a little rounder, a little more gentle. His smile is soft. He holds the woman to him as if she is everything golden in life. Behind them is a lush field of yellow flowers, beckoning and trailing down into a steep bluff.

 

And all the rest of the pictures follow a similar vein. There’s one of your graduation, that same couple from before standing around you with looks mixed between pride and sadness. The woman seems to be a little bit distant, standing off to your right. Her hand on your shoulder is stiff. You don’t seem to notice. Your eyes are drifting to somewhere to the left of the camera, your smile caught in time as it begins to wilt.

 

There’s another one of you and Catherine, arms linked and standing in front of the wrought iron legs of something he recalls is named the Eiffel Tower. Her hair is a curly pastel pink. Yours is shorter than now.

 

Next is a picture of a large group of people, all dressed in dark blue scrubs in front of a small, rundown building. There’s a mix of monsters and humans, all exhausted but infinitely happy. You’re off somewhere to the left, one hand lifted in an awkward, if endearing, thumbs up.

 

The last picture in the lineup would have made his heart stop had he had one. As it is, his Soul hums stutteringly in surprise. He can feel a few wisps of his magic curl tendrils around his limbs, and for once he feels his own gravity turned against him. He is rooted to the spot as he looks at a picture of Grillby.

 

The couch is unfamiliar. It’s fairly tasteful with brown leather upholstery. Yet as business-like as it is, it does look very comfortable as Grillby slumps against it, head tilted back, and mouth open in a snore. Slim glasses crookedly slide down his face. His charcoal vest is slightly wrinkled and most amazingly of all are the black inked swirls and drawings all over his flaming visage.

 

Had Sans not been consumed with questions and fear, he would have laughed. The curly-cue moustache really did suit the bartender. And he easily finds the culprits peeking over the back of the couch. 

 

It’s you again. Your face is a little rounder. Your hair is long, spilling over your shoulders as your smile digs into your bright eyes. Your hands grasp onto the edge of the couch, marker in one hand. There’s a little monster next to you. He can’t quite make out all of them. They’re too short to see much beyond the top of their yellow head and slim black antennae that crook in anticipation.

 

At the bottom right corner of the picture there’s a slight blur. Whoever took the photo had covered the lens partially, a white fuzzy impression cuts off that section.

 

And something tells him he knows exactly who took the picture. It’s the only thing that would add up with how you know Tori. Alphys and Undyne seem to be another story altogether, based on the hesitant and awkward way you had interacted with them.

 

But Tori? There was history there. And he hadn’t gotten anything more from her other than that you were an old family friend.

 

It was probably true, but your connection seems to run a lot deeper than that, and now here was proof that you knew some of his friends way before he had even fathomed your existence.

 

He needs more. Needs more answers as to why you know Grillby and Toriel. Why you’re so at ease with monsters. Why you seem to weave yourself into a narrative that he once played a part in and why he’s never met you before if that was the case.

 

His brief investigation leads him back to your desk, where he notices a picture frame face down. But just as he’s reaching for it, you let out a small yell. 

 

Sans freezes in place, beads of sweat slowly rolling down the side of his skull and dripping into his stained white t-shirt. His curiosity and burning questions quickly cool to a simmer. His flimsy justifications for prying are swiftly replaced by guilty thoughts as he tries to come up with any excuses he can.

 

But all that happens is that you pop out your head from the doorway, eyes ringed with dark circles, but wide with realization. You sit steadily in the pool of light coming from your closet, bracing yourself back on your arms

 

“Oh man! Sans, do you have the right clothes for riding?”

 

He doesn’t really know how to answer that. That had been the farthest thing from his mind when he had come into your room. And it was now quickly becoming something so common sense, that he’s not really surprised you or he have overlooked it. You’ve both been lacking in that department for a while now.

 

“Uh…”

 

He merely shrugs, picking at some of his blue jacket to ask if it was okay. He really hopes it is, because “let’s leave right now” seems to be turning into “let’s leave after a day more of prep time.”

 

You frown a little in contemplation, eyes sweeping over his black shorts, house slippers and stained t-shirt in a scrutinizing manner. He feels a little self conscious. You don’t seem to realize you are judging him, even as your mouth curls into a deeper frown.

 

“Is it waterproof?”

 

He sighs in relief. Glad that you haven’t caught him snooping.

 

“y-yeah. why?  _ water _ you trying to figure out?” 

 

You don’t even seem to notice the pun. He feels a little offended. You simply tap at your chin, humming thoughtfully. 

 

“Do you have thick pants? Something warm.  _ And actual shoes _ ?”

 

The judgement in your tone makes his response sound a little peeved. Really, who were you to judge when you lived half your life in comfortable scrubs?

 

“yes. yes. and yes.”

 

“Good. Good. Road rash is a nightmare. Weather is unpredictable. You’ll need protection.”

 

That seems to settle the matter as you distractedly nod your head in satisfaction and turn back to sorting through the pile of what seems like black leather surrounding you. 

 

He sighs, glad his meager wardrobe was varied enough to suit your ridiculous standards. His relief is short lived, quickly swept away by an unbelievable feeling of excitement. It borders on anxiety as it seeps into him, and he knows it’s only been ten minutes since you began to prepare, but still he feels like it’s been forever. He can’t do much else but shuffle his way to you.

 

He plops himself down on the green carpet next to you, snorting in disbelief when he looks at the utter disaster that is your closet.

 

The shelves look like they’re bending under the weight of numerous items. A few dusty game consoles. A few unopened games and movies piled over each other messily. Some old baseball gear in a battered box, including a smallish wooden bat notched with marks. Some clothes that looks like they've seen better days and then the rest of your dull hued wardrobe is spread around whatever little room is left.

 

“and you said i was messy, kid. looks like someone’s got a hoarding problem.”

 

You simply scoff at him as you fold a few pieces and place them to the side of the pile.

 

“I don’t leave dirty socks in my living room. Besides, storage space is a rare commodity in this complex.”

 

“too bad you’re so mean. i woulda offered you some more space.” He drawls, left eye flaring briefly as he uses one sharp fingertip to tear a slim line in the air between you two. The wind is a tiny whistle, still cold and still noisy.

 

It doesn’t escape his notice that you shiver at the sound, but then you’re quickly giving him a derisive laugh. Space knits itself back together eagerly while you do so.

 

He likes this. It’s better than before. It seems as if something really has broken between you two, and it’s made your interactions a lot more comfortable. The tentativeness from before is gone, no longer lingering like a bad smell in the air.

 

“You are such a butt head. Really? You tear Space just to make a stupid joke.”

 

“yep.” He answers as he stands up with a grunt, edging himself around you and your piles of nonsensical order.

 

You look up at him warily and it simply makes him even more curious as to why most of these games are unopened and the consoles don’t seem as if they’ve ever been used. He easily reaches for one of the cases, still wrapped in plastic.

 

“underwatch? this just came out last week...didn’t realize you were such a fan of video games, bee.” 

 

It’s almost tangible, the way the statement hurts you. The tension ripples like a wave down your spine. You bring up your arms to hug yourself, your wry smile twisting into something sad and bitter. Your gaze is distant as you look at him, trying very hard not to let whatever you feel slip into your expression.

 

“Y-yeah. I really like them. Heard Underwatch was really great. The reviews said it was a nice design for a first person shooter? Though apparently it's also got an awesome story line. The decisions you make have consequences? And it’s a little like Team Fortress 2...though I’ve never played, Catherine said it was worth the b-buy.”

 

You trail off, your hands still gripping onto the holey gray t-shirt you wore to bed. He’s intrigued. Something about the way you spout the details makes him think you’re just being a really good parrot. It’s all a little hesitant, like you don’t know for sure if what you’re saying makes any sense.

 

He has so many questions. The more he learns about you, the more he wants to pry. But he knows none of this stuff will give him information that’s relevant as to why you can remember the loops. This is just your backstory. Probably normal, probably something very human, despite your interactions with monsters.

 

It’s all exposition that’ll fade away into nothingness.

 

So with that, he settles himself. Tapping the case blithely and placing it back gently on the shelf.

 

“it’s all geek to me, bud.” He shrugs. “can’t tell you much about video games unless it’s mario kart.”

 

He knows he’s lying. Papyrus loved video games and had often dragged him into them with his sheer enthusiasm. But that’s a part of him that juts out painfully in his emotions, cutting deep into once pleasurable memories that are tainted with regret. He seems to stall and grasps just that much harder to the case, fingers digging into the plastic.

 

You open your mouth to say something, and he almost sees a sheen of awareness in your eyes. He fears that you’ll somehow know this one hurt. This thing that hurts more than all the rest of his connections combined. Then you simply sigh a little and give a tired smile. Even more guilt is heaped on him as you slump over, sitting in the middle of sloppy piles of clothes and he thinks you look a lot smaller than before. 

 

Your laugh is forced, but it’s nowhere near as bitter as it once was.

 

“The video games...the consoles...they’re for my b- friend.” You startle a bit, eyes wide and painfully smiling as you correct yourself. 

 

“your  _ bee _ friend? so did they choose that nick name? aren’t all your friends technically bee friends, or bee’s friends.”

 

You stick your tongue out at him childishly, and he doesn’t know why, but he’s glad you’re not sad anymore.

 

“They’re really for my friend.” You reiterate, laughing a little. “He umm...he really likes that kind of stuff.”

 

He nods just to make you happy. It works. You give him a grateful smile and finally cheer a little when you find what you’ve been looking for.

 

You pull up a pair of leather fingerless gloves, some knee pads and a soft, mustard yellow scarf. There’s also some very thick jeans folded underneath the assortment and he starts to understand just how serious you are about this road trip.

 

You’ve found your riding gear and glancing at the red numbers of your alarm clock shows him that less than twenty minutes has passed. He stares in disbelief, because it felt much longer than that.

 

You get up, knees creaking a little with the effort. He has to dodge when you kick the unneeded clothes back into the closet.

 

“i don’t think closet floors gar-ment to store your clothes like that, kid.”

 

“It’s not a big deal. They’ll get wrinkled eventually. Besides, I can feel you practically burning holes into the top of my head. I’m hurrying up.”

 

You step out of the closet and pause for a bit, halfway through the door.

 

“I feel like I'm forgetting something. But what?” You ponder unexpectedly. 

 

Sans isn't sure what else you think is necessary, seeing as you've already filled your backpack to bursting and your gear seems complete.

 

“uh...your common sense?” 

 

“No.” You roll your eyes at him.

 

“a picture?” He says, trying not to look as if he's hoping you'll turn over the frame on your desk.

 

“Nope.”

 

“your rent for the next three months?” He shrugs.

 

“N- wait...umm...that's already taken care of. Landlady was nice enough to find someone to sublet the apartment for summer.” You explain quickly, still distracted.

 

He hums, impressed with your resourcefulness. He'd always just went and paid the rest of the year in full. His salary wasn't exactly something to sneeze at. The company that funded the research paid well. But he supposes that students have to be resourceful with how much tuition costs.

 

“okay...uh.” He looks around your closet, flushing slightly as he catches sight of a lacy pink brassiere poking out of the pile of clothes. “underwear?”

 

“No, Sans! Wha-” You follow his sight, mortified when you see what he’s looking at. You quickly kick some more clothes over it and give an awkward laugh. “sorry about that...but NO...something for the road trip...something to...umm…”

 

Truly stumped and a little impatient, he starts suggesting random things from inside the closet.

 

“coat hanger?”

 

“Niet.”

 

“a sundress?” 

 

“Non.”

 

“a baseball bat?”

 

“No-yeh.”

 

Oof. Was that too close for comfort. The sound you make is soft and high pitched and the syllables run together to create a soft almost  _ Nyeh _ sound...god, does that hurt. But thankfully, it's what you were looking for.

 

You give him an impressed smile as you reach for the bat, standing on your toes.

 

“why exactly do you need a baseball bat for a road trip?”

 

You finally manage to bring it down, cradling it with a fondness he's only ever seen on the face of new mothers.

 

“You said there have been incidents? That it's not always safe. So a baseball bat is great for blunt force trauma, if anything happens.”

 

You say this with a straight face. Matter of factly. It's almost hilarious how much you seem to believe that this tiny piece of wood could protect you. But he has to ask, out of all things, why this?

 

“why not a knife?” He hides the gritting of his teeth well behind a smile. The word itself still gives him chills. He's a little glad your choice of weapon was a bat.

 

However unwieldy that might be.

 

“Knives are…” You wrinkle your nose in distaste. “Knives can hurt someone really badly...baseball bats can at least just surprise someone enough to let you get away.”

 

He stares at you, wonder filling up his gaze as you stand there, hair falling messily around your face, holding a baseball bat loosely by your side. Dressed in a holey t-shirt and pajama pants.

 

He thinks he's never seen something so wonderful in all his life. Relief floods him, because even if your Soul isn't red, it's gotta be something beautiful for you to worry about killing someone who's out to kill you.

 

“Ah...yeah, I know it's kind of dumb...but this baseball bat is also a good luck charm. It belonged to my friend.”

 

He hadn't realized how much he'd been staring. Quickly he clears his throat and tries to joke.

 

“this the same bee friend from before?”

 

Pain flowers across your face, choking out your glee.

 

“Y-yeah. Same friend.” You heave a weary sigh and proceed to go back into your room. “Can you please turn off the light and close the door? My hands are full.”

 

He nods and blinks a little in confusion at how much hurt the mention of this “friend” causes you.

 

He glances around at everything one last time, all the boxes heaped carelessly on top of one another. He wants to ask, _ just how long has it been since you’ve seen this friend?  _ But Sans and you are not there yet. You’ve reached a deeper understanding, but there are still things that are not meant to be divulged. He understands that better than anyone, and if there’s one thing he likes about you, it’s that you are far from nosy.

 

He closes the door with a gentle thud.

 

Still, a rough idea begins to take shape in the back of his mind, and it’s another assumption that may or may not come back to bite him in his non-existent bony butt. The word b-friend combines with overheard conversations you’ve had with Catherine. The fact that you’ve used  _ he  _ and the fact that at least one of your romantic preferences is for males tells him that this b-friend may be an old boyfriend of some sort...maybe an ex-boyfriend you still have feelings for? 

 

_ ‘just an idea _ .’ Sans tells himself. He gives himself a mental pat on the back for making another amazing deduction, but knowing you, you’d somehow manage to circumvent this in the strangest way possible.

 

He looks at you for a bit, eyes taking in your earnestness...the way in which you pat your backpack a bit more as if to reassure yourself that you’re ready...the way that you tilt your head a little to gather warmth from the weak, drifting sunbeams….the way you heave a deep breath, and however shaky, seem to settle with resolve on your future.

 

You’ll find a way to circumvent ALL his assumptions, for sure. And maybe, that is just enough to keep him hoping.

* * *

 

He watches you struggle with the bags and bat, casually leaning against the concrete pillar. He would help, but he’s taking care of some loose ends. His fingers are quick as they type out a few messages in response.

 

**Group Message: Undyne, Alphys, Tori**

 

**[*need a break from everything. going on a trip for work, right now]**

 

He doesn’t wait for any replies or questions. He’s not in the mood and dealing with people that care is always harder when you invest too much. So he goes to his settings and puts his phone on silent. 

 

You finally finish patting down the baggage and give him a dirty look. Amusement curls delightfully through all his bitter loneliness. Sans knows that it’s usually better to work alone...but he would be lying if he didn’t say he was glad you were with him.

 

He hopes the feeling is mutual.

 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO IT WAS A LITTLE NOT OBVIOUS, BUT DID ANYONE NOTICE THE INTEGRITY SOUL POWER WAS KIND OF REVEALED...yeah it counts! XD Ahh okay, so WE'VE GOT RELATIONSHIP DEVELOPMENT AND SOME BACK STORY. thank you to everyone who reads, kudoses??, or bookmarks this thing OMG.


	10. To Go Somewhere You Have Never Traveled, Gladly Beyond

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ROAD TRIP START! also in which things get a little silly and a lot melancholy. AND SANS HAS GOT GAME.
> 
> THANK YOU TO THE STUPENDOUSLY, SERENDIPITOUS SINNABEE FOR HER AMAZING BETA SKILLS AND FOR HELPING ME SO MUCH WITH THIS CHAPTER. this one was a doozy, so she deserves an award for slogging through 26 pages of typos and grammar and maybe plot. 
> 
> HUGE THANK YOU to everyone who reads this story, left a comment, bookmarked or gave a kudos. Y'all are amazing...

You somehow manage to fit your burgeoning backpack, your baseball bat and Sans’ small, but heavy, duffel bag on the back of your bike. You make sure they’re secure underneath the dark mesh and push them down just for good measure.

 

You wipe the sweat off of your forehead, feeling very warm with your yellow scarf and trusty green anorak jacket. It’s certainly waterproof, and it makes for an amazing riding jacket, but gosh is it toasty.

 

Sans merely laughs at you from his spot, leaning against a concrete column next to you. You really want to chide him for not helping out, but there’s no point. He already did you the favor of carrying down your bag in addition to his.

 

You eye him skeptically, slightly relieved to note that he’s changed into a white turtleneck sweater underneath his blue jacket and dark jeans. You sneak a quick glance at his feet and are completely satisfied when you see a pair of worn sneakers there.

 

“Glad you took my advice.” You say, just a tad less scared than before.

 

“i was two-tired to fight back.” He says simply, shifting his hands into the pockets of his thick blue jacket.

 

Your wit just happens to be the best thing working right now, so you’re not surprised when you say-

 

“Now you’re  _ motore-cycling _ your puns,  _ Snas _ . You’re off your game.”

 

He gives a brief bark of laughter, more breaking waves than rolling baritone at the moment.

 

“i’m  _ exhausted _ , kid. Give me a  _ brake.”  _ He swiftly shifts his glance from the exhaust pipe of your Rebel to the brake handle. 

 

You’ve got to hand it to him. Two in one is a great feat.

 

You laugh a lot this time, slipping on your helmet and pulling on your riding gloves. Your knee pads are already on, edging just into the cuffs of your brown boots. 

 

Cautious you might be, but experience has long taught you it’s better to be safe than sorry.

 

You don’t know how long you’ll be able to drive for, considering you only got maybe four hours of sleep, but something thuds within you telling you to leave the city and  _ go, go, go… _

 

And you listen to it.

 

It still thuds, even as Sans mounts eagerly onto the back of your bike, maintaining less space than before. Your engine roars to life just as the hum of his magic increases and you feel chills run down your back as tendrils of his magic just barely touch the skin peeking from underneath your yellow scarf.

 

You’ll never tell him, but that weighty warmth you feel with his magic is starting to become enticingly comfortable.

 

You are surprised when he places a heavy hand on your shoulder, his bony fingers squeezing reassuringly.

 

It’s hard to look at him from behind your visor, but you catch a glimpse of blue and a wide, genuine smile reflected in your sight and you feel a happiness and freedom like none before fill your heart.

 

“W-we just have to make one more stop.” You say, mouth dry and tongue leaden as the thudding increases in your ears. You know it’s not the same as that dimly constant thing that tells you what to do...it’s your own heart, loud and clear and beating stupidly fast at his touch.

 

Heat wells up in your face and you rip away from the parking garage faster than necessary.

 

It works wonders as Sans lets out a surprised yelp and removes his hand. He is now gripping onto the seat in front of him, but you feel the phantom weight of it still on your shoulder.

 

Your cheeks are still red. You don’t know what to do with yourself as the thought of spending three months with him stretches out into a reality you’d never considered. But it’s as real as the morning dew that crests the leaves you speed by and as real as the sun that beats down on your back.

 

_ Oh, ____, you are so screwed. _

* * *

 

 

“You’re going by yourself?! That’s not safe, Bee! Oh my god, I knew you were reckless, but-

 

“CATHERINE! I’m not going by myself!” You interrupt her rant, rubbing your temples. 

 

It’s only 6:00 in the morning, and Catherine’s worry, however endearing, is grating.

 

You had come to hand her your keys, already having scheduled your three month vacation a month in advance. It was part of your clockwork. Summer was always time for you to leave New Town, go somewhere you’d never been before while you depleted your meager savings’ account looking for an answer to the loops...usually on another continent.

 

And before your trip, you always told Catherine where you were going. She had assumed Brazil this time, based on your ramblings, but a road trip across the country on your flimsy motorcycle? Now that was just plain dangerous in her eyes.

 

So when she stares at you, waiting for your response, you are all too eager to point out a lazily waving Sans to her. He’s leaning near the entrance, against the glass covered by creeping roses on the other side.

 

“ _ YOU’RE GOING WITH SANS?!”  _

 

“Yep. He’s done this before...sorta. He helped me plan and stuff. It’ll be fun.” You blithely say, grinning a little as you curl one of your arms and point to your flabby bicep. “Plus, he’s a man’s man. Strong enough to lift my bag and his. I’ll be safe.”

 

“You're going with Sans?” she repeats, lower this time.

 

“If it helps, I am also bringing along a baseball bat?”

 

Your satisfaction is complete when you hear Sans’ muffled laughter drifting over from the corner. Catherine’s expression is flabbergasted. It quickly shifts into something very sinister, her smile growing soft and joyous. You can see all the little daydreams flashing like cards in a deck across her face.

 

She’s already naming her half-skeleton god children, you’re sure of it.

 

“So...what do I tell your mom when she calls here asking where her daughter’s run off to this time?” Her voice is oddly soothing, just too eerie for your own good...or Sans’ own good for that matter.

 

But she brings up a good point. You’ve hardly spoken to your mother since you left for college. Any news about her and...whoever else you left behind...is relayed through your cheery father. You’ve proved yourself independent enough. And any news about you is relayed through your father, or through, surprisingly, Catherine.

 

Regardless, helpful friends were a blessing, and you find yourself oddly affectionate when you hug Catherine over the counter and answer her question.

 

“Just tell her the truth.” 

 

“You mean tell her that you’re eloping with a cute skeleton monster and spending your summer on a honeymoon road trip?” She says excitedly, tugging at one of your loose strands of hair affectionately.

 

You pull away in disdain, protests battering against your lips but none form well enough to lob at her.

 

An awkward cough sounds from somewhere behind you.

 

You however are sputtering, speechless and she is laughing as she looks at Sans in the corner. You follow her glance, and find the sight heart stoppingly adorable.

 

Sans has ducked his head further into the fur that crest his hood, the tops of his cheeks are blue and he’s avoiding your gaze, rocking back and forth on the heels of his sneakers.

 

You feel a fierce need to explain yourself and him...for his dignity at the very least.

 

“Catherine! THAT’S NOT...I..urghh...oh my god...just tell her whatever you want!” You pull away from the countertop, slapping the keys with a decisive click onto the wood.

 

Some explanation that was. Great job, ___. Excellent verbal sparring.

 

Catherine is still laughing by the time she lifts the door and steps through to gather you up in a warm, cushioning embrace.

 

“I’m just joking, hun. I kind of wish I could go with you, like Paris...but..” She says a bit wistfully, before perking up. “Have fun with your  _ vertebae _ , okay? Text me when you get to a rest stop...and at least every other day just so I know you’re still alive.” 

 

Her list of demands is reasonable enough...she always sends you off like this, but it’s something that’s never become boring in your eyes. You love her more for it and just nod silently against her shoulder.

 

She looks over your head to send a stiff glare to Sans.

 

“Take care of her, skeleton boy, or you’ll be nothing more than dust I’ll sweep up into my dustpan.”

 

He reassures her calmly, still clearing his throat after the embarrassment of her earlier joke. 

 

You don't really see his serious expression as he reassures her, but it seems to satisfy her enough that she lets you go.

 

You make your way to the door, giving one last smile to Catherine over your shoulder. You hold the door open for Sans, feeling a twinge of melancholy when you see Catherine wave at you one last time.

 

The door closes with a tinkling finality, and the roses are still topped with dew, glistening in the sun. There are hardly any clouds today, and you want to curse New Town for giving you summer weather the day you’re leaving the city.

 

You make your way in silence besides Sans, relishing in the busy humdrum of people going to work. Most of the students are probably sleeping in or preparing for their last bit of finals, but you are free and that makes your smile broader...until Sans speaks up.

 

“so, i’m your vertebae, bee? that’s a good one...that means i can call you my honeybae.”

 

You walk faster, trying to leave him behind, but life seems to hate you as you trip over an upraised tile in the concrete and you fall forward.

 

Your knees never hit the floor though, because there’s something really heavy in your gut and your world is tinted blue. You are caught halfway, arms outstretched in instinct to brace yourself.

 

You can only move your eyes to your right to see Sans standing there, one hand raised and blue eye blazing.

 

All you can say is-

 

_ “HOLY CRAP! It worked on me?!” _

* * *

 

After the initial surprise of having Sans’ floaty magic work on you, and painlessly at that, you both quickly agreed that the subject could be explored later. You had both mounted the bike all too eagerly after that, and had zoomed out of the city, leaving behind all the past few months of confusion and pain in your burning wake.

 

It’s really amazing how slow time passes you by on a motorcycle. What feels like a long hour in the city feels infinitely more exhausting on the highway. The sun beats down on you, and the wind whips past your visor.

 

The thundering sound of air rushing past and the ocean waves crashing on your right is deafening. You thread through the light traffic, weaving fast and free around slow cars. You are only subject to your own fatigue and to the winding curves of the shore. The road hugs the shallow bluffs, streaming delicately through the natural landscape of rolling mountains descending into sandy beaches. 

 

Clouds float lazily in the distance, dissipating into faints trails of white. Sunbeams play off of the water’s surface and small orange and white flowers dance, welcoming you to this big, new world.

 

On the other side of the highway, traffic is slow, heading into New Town for the graduation weekend.

 

And your bike’s weight is solid underneath you, Sans’ magic humming more happily than you’ve ever thought it could. If you listen closely, underneath the roar of your engine, you can hear the steady beat pulsing, almost an actual melody.

 

Despite how long the journey feels, you are free. That alone is enough to make you feel like you can go on forever with your bike and your baggage and your friend.

 

It’s all you’ll need to keep on riding forever.

* * *

 

You lied.

 

It’s all of four hours before your concentration starts to wane and your mouth keeps contorting into a yawn. 

 

The sun is high in the sky now and you are buffeted with a dizzying series of hot and cold as you weave through the hills, occasionally catching a glimpse of the ocean on certain stretches of the highway.

 

You startle a bit when you feel a heavy hand on your shoulder, but you are experienced in riding, and there’s not much that can tear your focus away from the road. You give Sans a quick thumbs up, letting him know that you’re aware of his call for attention.

 

A sign overhead, white writing on green, lets you know that there’s a rest stop coming up in just a mile and a half.

 

You raise your right shoulder towards the sign quickly and Sans’ fingers squeeze a little. The warm flare of his magic seems to hum faster, and you get the sense that he understands. Wordlessly, you two have communicated that it’s time to take a break.  

 

The roaring of the wind dies down as you take the exit and slow down as you come to a wide street, the red traffic light glaring bright in the heat of the summer sun. Sweat runs down your temple, and your are keenly aware of how gross everything feels and it’s all sticking to your skin.

 

A small inlet winds its way around the flat wetlands. A few sparse buildings pop up along the edge of the calm waters, but it can hardly be called a town. It’s more a collection of necessities for weary travelers, perched in a scenic little section of the coast.

 

There’s a few tourist attractions here; mainly the paddle boarding and kayaking shop nestled near the opening of the inlet, before the water opens out into the wide ocean.

 

The breeze is cool against what little skin is exposed on you, and you shiver.

 

You are suddenly beset with the desire to freshen up and you turn into the parking lot of a small 24-hour diner. There’s a few big rigs lined up around it, some sedans, and then a line of motorcycles closer to the entrance. 

 

The sign on the side of the brick building reads “Sunny Side Diner” in broad, red lettering. It’s a welcoming little establishment, with wide glass windows and a cheesy little smiling sun mascot shining a bright, plastic yellow. 

 

You catch a whiff of burnt oil and french fries against the briny air as you pull into a parking spot, and your heart leaps with happiness. That’s a sign of some hearty food for sure.

 

You park your motorcycle next to the line up of really, really big, really intimidating choppers and hogs that glint dangerously in the sunlight. Sans gives out a derisive snort at how small your Rebel looks compared to the rest.

 

You stick out your tongue at him, patting your beautiful teal bike defensively.

 

“She’s just enough for what we’ve got to do. She’s perfect.”

 

“oh, i won’t argue with that, but her owner seems to be lagging a bit. couldn’t make it past four hours, huh? two-tire-”

 

“You already used that one, like twice.” You say a little waspishly. You feel slightly irritable, and just icky overall. “Sorry...I just really need coffee.”

 

“don’t worry. a bee needs her buzz, right?”

 

“Hardy har har.” You mock as you pull your heavy backpack onto your shoulders. You don't feel comfortable enough to leave it strapped to the bike. Sans on the other hand seems to think otherwise. He leaves his duffel behind.

 

“i’m a man’s man, right? i can handle anyone who tries to take my stuff.” 

 

He flexes one arm and you cringe a bit when he does this, because there's no muscle there and god was that an embarrassing thing for you to tell Catherine.

 

He gives you an amused look, stuffing his hands into his pockets when you merely give him a deadpan stare in response. He starts shuffling towards the door, opening it and motioning for you to go in before him.

 

“Okay, so chivalry isn’t dead, it’s a monster.” You say, slightly cheered by the act. 

 

“right on, bud.”

 

“You say right a lot.”

 

“left.” He grins and you return it enthusiastically...sort of.

 

You feel a little bad that you had snapped at him, but fair is fair. He had cut into your sleep time, right after you had just finished finals and had a run-in with a blast from the past.

 

The giddiness from before fills you to the tips of your toes and even the bell of the door ringing behind you sounds really happy to see you. You see a waitress already standing near the entrance, looking bored out of her mind as she blows a huge bubble with her gum.

 

“Excuse me.” You say, watching in awe as it gets bigger and bigger. You seem to startle her though, because the bubble pops with an audible snap, and she’s managed to catch most of it behind her very white teeth.

 

She reminds you vaguely of those old pin up girl paintings. Her hair is up in black pincurls, prettily framing her round face. Her red lipstick matches her red apron, curling into a frown of boredom as she gives you a once over. You can sense slight dismay coming over her as she sees that you have nothing interesting to offer other than a worn smile and a shrug.

 

“Welcome to Sunny Side, how may I help...you?” She trails off just as you hear that telltale elegant shuffling coming up behind you.

 

You see her interest balloon up as fast as her bubble gum had. Her blue eyes are wide, her smile curling wonderfully upwards as she catches sight of your companion.

 

“table for two.” Sans says easily, holding up two bony fingers for emphasis. You nudge him. 

 

“ow, please and thank you.” He adds ruefully, rubbing at his arm.

 

By now, the waitress...you quickly check her silvery name tag….Lauren has turned about as red as her lipstick. She quickly excuses herself and picks up two menus, fumbling a little. 

 

Just underneath the puffed sleeves of her white button up, you catch sight of some very intricate tattoos...and they are skull and skeletal themed, wound through with flowers and little hearts.

 

“F-follow me, please!” She says gently.

 

Understanding flickers to life in your tired mind, and for once you can barely hold back the laughter that threatens to burst out. You sympathize with her, you really do. You’ve had your fair share of super attractive customers at the Bean Hole. Worse still, you’ve had your fair share of hot patients...physicals made you devolve into a flustered mess early on. All in all, she’s keeping it together far better than you ever could.

 

Even if she has questionable taste, you admire her tenacity. Still, the thought of someone finding  _ Sans _ of all people attractive makes you laugh. An ugly snort escapes through your fingers and Sans and Lauren turn to look at you.

 

“Oh god, sorry! Allergies!” You excuse yourself, thinking of sad things like Mettaton reruns to dampen your mood.

 

Sans doesn’t seem to believe you, but plays along.

 

“pardon my dust.”

 

What a morbid joke, you think...but you wonder if Lauren really understands the implications when she lets out the most tittering of laughs, bringing up a very nicely manicured hand to her mouth. It’s almost too loud, and Sans is staring at her as if he really doesn’t know what to think.

 

“Oh...that’s so funny, Mr.?” Her tone is coquettish in a subtle way. You mentally give her kudos for this achievement. God knows your attempts at flirty always sound like you’re on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

 

“uhh...just snazzy. snazzy the skeleton.” He answers carefully, a bit unsure what to make of Lauren’s reaction.

 

“Ooh, that’s such a snazzy name, Snazzy!” She jokes a bit, swatting at the air between the two of them. She’s almost his height, and so she nearly does end up clocking him in the head. Thankfully, Sans has the reflexes of a matador, and he very smoothly shifts his head to the right, giving her a terse laugh.

 

You quietly approve of his use of a false name, mostly just because keeping a low profile for a while seems to be something he’s emphasized over and over. Though the way Lauren’s eyes grow brighter now that she has his “name” makes you want to sink to the floor and laugh until you cry.

 

_ ‘Oh Snazzy, you poor, oblivious numbskull.’ _

 

Your excitement from before settles into sharp amusement. This is going to be fun. And you don’t even have to lift a finger. Sans seems to be already unnerved, suspicion lacing his expressions as you are both lead to a booth in the back.

 

You note with relief that there are actually a few monsters here. There’s a burly wolfman in the back, nose half buried in yesterday’s newspaper. There’s an adorable bunny couple sharing a milkshake together.

 

The other human patrons are minding their own business. The group of bikers towards the front are rowdy, but in a self-contained manner that actually seems pretty jovial from an outside perspective. Even if all the leather and metal makes you shrink a little into your fashionable anorak.

 

There’s air conditioner here. You are content as Sans’ and Lauren’s awkward conversation fades into background amusement. You take a moment to quickly text Catherine a message.

 

**To: Cool Catherine**

 

**[At a diner somewhere south of Oceanside. Love you.]**

 

It doesn't take long for you to receive a message back. You quickly accept it and smile a little when you see that it's a picture of Catherine giving you a thumbs up.

 

By the time you put your phone away, Sans and Lauren are already at the other end of the diner. You note with surprise that she has placed you two in a booth with a view of the inlet. It’s admittedly very nice for a late morning breakfast, but the way she looks at Sans in expectation tells you this wasn’t for you.

 

“I hope you like it! It’s usually not this empty, so I was able to give you the nice table. A-anyways, can I start you off with drinks?”

 

She’s looking directly at Sans, wide eyes shifting over every bone and magical segment that keeps him together. Really, to her, it’s like you have disappeared. The world has ceased to be, all except for this mostly confused fine specimen of a bone man.

 

But thankfully, Sans seems to remember who he’s traveling with and points to you.

 

“i would ask her first before she bites both our heads off.” He winks at her, and you swear Lauren clutches her chest. You wonder if you’ll have to use your smelling salts to revive her if she swoons...you have them...in your backpack.

 

“Oh…” Her tone is noticeably less bubbly, more subdued as she looks at you. You offer her a smile, but it’s returned with an awkward attempt at happiness. “Hello, what would you like to drink?”

 

“A coffee, please. No cream, no sugar.” You answer quickly, already feeling your energy dropping by the second. Black coffee it is...no mercy today, that’s for sure. You need to be awake for the next five hours or so until you reach the first stop.

 

She simply nods in your direction, not really bothering to take notes...but honestly, black coffee is pretty easy to remember, so you’re not at all peeved.

 

Then, she does it. She makes her first move. She leans in a little closer to Sans, deftly laying a delicate hand on his shoulder as she asks him in a hushed tone what he would like.

 

You see the confusion on his face only grow, a furrow forming between his eyes sockets as he struggles to comprehend what’s going on.

 

“We have some fresh Moldsmal milk, if you’d like? Great source of calcium, dear! There’s also magic beverages for a boost? Specialty teas all the way from Mt. Ebott?” She offers, a litany of drinks that you don’t remember being told existed. 

 

You look at the back of the menu and are unsurprised to see none of them there.

 

“uhh...just regular coffee please? and some magical creamer.” 

 

Lauren makes a show of pulling out the small notepad that had been crammed somewhere in her bra strap, tastefully giving Sans a glimpse of her impressive clavicle structure. She quickly pens down his order and flits off behind the red colored bar to get your drinks.

 

You gape after her in disbelief, laughter welling up in your throat until you have to hide your smile behind your menu. 

 

“what’s tickling your funny bone, kid?” 

 

“Nothing.” You say, but a snicker still escapes through your clenched teeth. But you quickly look through the menu, deciding on an old favorite. A stack of pancakes with a side of scrambled eggs. Easy and probably simple enough for Lauren to remember, even among all her daydreams of romancing a skeleton.

 

“hmm...nothing, nothing, tra la la.” He drawls, and there it is again, that rolling baritone that makes the hairs on the back of your neck rise. 

 

“Nice. A Labyrinth reference? Though I see you as more of a Hoggle type than a Goblin King, I’ll give you an A for effort.” 

 

Though, if you had to be honest, his voice did have a powerful quality to it, a hidden undercurrent of something rich and maybe a little sinister. You quickly stuff down the unneeded thought that maybe Lauren has the right idea. There’s literally no basis for these odd ideas your brain keeps coming up with. Sans is a friend...a very good, very sad, very smug asshole-friend whose sanity is barely held together by the barest of threads.

 

_ ‘Definitely not boyfriend material.’ _

 

Lauren comes back not even three minutes later with both your coffees, spilling a little of yours when she places it down while blatantly looking at Sans tasting his.

 

“It’s good, right? I added in a little more creamer than Boss would have wanted me to. It’s our secret!” She brings an index finger up to her perfectly pouty mouth. 

 

“woah. thanks a latte, bud.” He grins up at her, genuinely surprised by her thoughtfulness.

 

You don’t know if you want to laugh or gag at this point, but Sans’ thanks and use of a coffee pun makes a prickle of something unpleasant eek its way into your chest. He usually reserves those for the days he waits for you at the Bean Hole. It feels wrong, somehow. 

 

You quickly take a sip of your bitter coffee to drown out whatever this is. It works, even if you scald your tongue in the process.

 

Quickly, she takes your orders. It doesn’t surprise you that Sans orders a burger and fries so early in the day. What does surprise you is when he asks for a bottle of ketchup. Lauren is too lovestruck to notice there already is one at the table. She makes sure to underline this request and makes her way giddily to the kitchen again.

 

You wonder if she has other tables to serve, but it seems the other two waiters are working to cover for Lauren. They look a bit frazzled as they bound back and forth between customers, carrying trays laden with greasy, yummy looking breakfast.

 

“A bottle of ketchup? Why? We have a perfectly good one right here.” You point out matter-of-factly. You bring it from its place near the napkin dispenser and place it squarely in front of him. 

 

He looks at you in disgust.

 

“you don’t know where that’s been, bee. come on, ketchup to my level.”

 

“Really?! You, of all people, are lecturing me, the nursing student, about _hygiene?_ Mr. I-leave-dirty-shorts-between-my-couch-cushions.”

 

“those were boxers.” He corrects, taking a sip of his coffee very smugly.

 

“Ewwwww. Oh my god….gross!” You say, wiping your hands on your jeans just to get off the icky feeling. His mirth is quiet and genuine, but it quickly slips into a serious note as he looks at you sincerely.

 

“we need to talk.”

 

“Giving me the break up speech already, Snazzy?” You chide, but now there’s nervousness that creeps into your tone. You’re not entirely ready, but you’re pushing through anyway. You grasp tensely onto the rejected ketchup bottle, knuckles pale with your grip.

 

“let’s do this.” He says, uncharacteristically gentle. He places his hands over yours on the bottle, slowly showing you what he intends. “we’ll take turns asking questions. if the question is okay to answer, we’ll stand the ketchup up”

 

He taps on the your hands to show that it’s already standing up.

 

“if it’s too hard, just lay it down.” He shifts his hands softly over yours and presses delicately against your skin so that you lay it down on the table with a barely audible clink. 

 

You feel heat rise up your neck, and you have to look away a bit from his earnest gaze. He’s being patient...patient in a real way, and it’s making your heartbeat go faster than you like. To your relief, he releases your hands soon enough and you manage an answer.

 

“Uh..yeah. Sounds reasonable.” You say, voice still trembling. Whether it’s from fear or nerves, you’re not sure you want to know.

 

His smile is wide when he hears your response.

 

“kids go first. ask me a question.”

 

You roll the ketchup bottle to him, and he stops it with a bit of his telekinesis.

 

“Not a kid. But thank you.” You chew on your bottom lip, contemplating how not to waste this rare opportunity. So you start heavy. “ _ Who is Papyrus?” _

 

The change is instant. The air around you two gets heavier and you feel that familiar leaden feeling in your gut, blue and cold this time around...but none of it for you. It’s an old, aching hurt...a scar that’s been torn open again and again. Still, Sans appears to struggle and you don’t think twice as you reach across the table and place a hand on one of his reassuringly.

 

“It’s okay. Remember if it’s too mu-”

 

_ Clink _ . The ketchup bottle is standing up, the barest outline of blue fading from it almost as soon as you notice it.

 

“papyrus is my little brother. he disappears with frisk, every single  _ damn _ time.”

 

Understanding like none ever before floods you, and maybe it’s not the whole story, but it’s a big enough piece to make your sympathy swell up inside you.

 

“Sans...I...I didn’t know. So-”

 

“don’t apologize for something that’s not your fault. your turn now.”

 

You don’t hesitate, you grasp the bottle and pull it towards you, waiting. He seems to lighten at the determined expression on your face.

 

“heh. kid, you look like you’re facing a firing squad. alright...how do you know tori?”

 

You sigh a little in relief. That’s an easy one to answer but it comes with a lot of baggage. Up goes the ketchup bottle.

 

“She’s my mom’s old friend. They did a lot of...umm...advocating for monster rights together when you guys first came out.”

 

Sans tilts his head in interest. You can’t tell if he’s believing what you’re giving him, but you’ve told him the truth. You just hope he didn’t notice the way you flinched when you mentioned your mother.

 

(He did.)

 

Fortunately or not, the conversation is interrupted when Lauren makes her grand re-entrance.

You’re earlier feeling of grossed out incredulity is complete when she brings forth your plates, again not really paying attention as she nearly slides yours into your lap. Sans looks at his food, poking at the crispy fries and is seemingly satisfied when they crunch delightfully.

 

You have to admit, they smell divine. The bright red of the new bottle against their golden color looks amazing. You quickly take back that thought when he proceeds to take the newly opened ketchup bottle Lauren has offered him and he brings it up to his mouth.

 

_ “bone appetit.”  _ He says and proceeds to chug back about one third of the bottle in front of you two.

 

“Oh. My. God.” You say. Fascination and disgust all mingle together as you wonder how the hell he's sieving all that through his teeth.

 

“Oh my….” Lauren echoes.

 

You’re prepared for the disappointment. You feel a slight swell of victory, just waiting for Lauren to voice her disgust and get over her attraction...but sadly, that is not the case when she clasps her hands and almost shrieks in glee.

 

“That’s absolutely amazing, Mr. Snazzy! Ketchup is my favorite condiment. Glad to see we have something in common!” 

 

And you notice that when she brings her hands together, her shirt is open a few more buttons. She’s trying to hunch her shoulders forward, emphasizing the deep ridges of her clavicle and the dip of her sternum...all succeeded by an impressive bosom that you admit is really nice.

 

Sans is staring at her, really confused by her reaction. You guess correctly that he’s used to people having your reaction, not hers. 

 

You can’t take it. You burst out laughing, your giggles devolving into a series of breathless guffaws because this whole scenario is just ridiculous.

 

Lauren goes in favor of ignoring you, trucking on.

 

“Well Mr. Snazzy, if you see anything else you like…” She says with half lidded eyes and you can practically hear  _ Careless Whisper _ in the background. You can’t take it anymore. You laugh a little harder, the other patrons are starting to give you weird looks but this is priceless.

 

But Sans isn't paying attention. He’s giving you a thoughtful grin, just edging into fondness as you literally start wheezing from laughing so hard. 

 

“nope. i’m good. thanks, pal!” He vaguely answers her in a leisurely tone, still looking at you.

 

Lauren frowns a bit and sullenly refills his coffee mug. She forgets to fill yours in her disappointment, but you manage to see her expression through the tears in your eyes and something tells you she’s not done yet.

  
“bee serious. what’s so funny?” He asks once she leaves.

 

He looks at you with wide eyes, curiosity brightening his pupils. You stifle another laugh.

 

“what? come on, kid! throw me a bone here.”

 

You catch your breath just long enough to let a wicked grin break out across your face. Your eyes twinkle mischievously as you take advantage of the opportunity Sans has unwittingly provided you.

 

“I'm pretty sure Lauren is the one that wants a bone thrown at her.”

 

He blinks slowly at you, comprehension just barely dawning on his face.

 

“Oh my god...I can’t” You say in between deep breaths, fighting back another fit of laughter. You can’t keep the smile off your face. “You’re such a numbskull. She’s so obviously into you, and you were so clueless!”

 

There's a slight flush of blue below his eyes, and he looks a little embarrassed as he proceeds to ignore your comment and douse his french fries in ketchup.

 

You finally are relaxed enough to pay attention to the warm pile of pancakes in front of you. You grab the maple syrup and dribble it over your pancakes. Out of habit, you also pour a little over your scrambled eggs.

 

Sans makes a noise of distaste.

 

“maple-y you shouldn't judge my ketchup drinking.”

 

You grin unapologetically, shoving a piece of the fluffy, syrupy eggs into your mouth. He doesn't deserve a response. Syrup and eggs were awesome. Far more refined than chugging ketchup straight out of a bottle.

 

Quiet settles over the two of you, but you know there's something bothering Sans when he keeps looking over at Lauren and then you. You contemplate asking him what's bothering him, but you don't want to egg him on.

 

Surprisingly, you don't have to. You're in the middle of taking a sip of coffee when he speaks up.

 

“are...are you sure? i mean, i’m not exactly...ah...well i don't know, how did you get together with that ex-boyfriend of yours?”

 

You feel the hot coffee scald your gullet and you have to pound on your chest to stop the choking sensation. He starts patting your shoulder awkwardly, but you brush him off, not wanting to cause a scene.

 

“I'm okay….just,” You cough a little, clearing your throat. You grab a napkin to wipe around your mouth. “What the hell kind of question is that?!”

 

Your cheeks are burning in embarrassment, because really you can't fathom how he's come to the conclusion that you have an ex-boyfriend.

 

“wait? so you don't have an ex-boyfriend?”

 

“NO! Oh god, no! I can barely even keep myself together on a first date. Seriously, I've never been in a relationship. Where would you even get that idea?!”

 

Your voice edges into hysteria, but Lauren is eyeing your table with a predatory gaze and Sans is slowly but surely slipping down his seat. He looks thoroughly embarrassed and you feel a little bad.

 

“Look, trust me. I'm the last person you should ask for dating advice, but even I can tell when someone is BLATANTLY interested...and she definitely is.”

 

But he doesn't seem to hear you, his curiosity is back and it's all directed at you.

 

“wait. so how many dates have you been on?”

 

You grab the ketchup bottle and are about to flip it down firmly on its side, but you take a good look at Sans’ face. His earnest curiosity is a bit adorable and you decide it can't hurt to answer honestly.

 

Bottle stays up. Sans comes back up from his slow descent.

 

“If you're counting high school, maybe ten dates or so? Spread out over about just as many people.” You tap your nails against the bottle. “The last date I went on ended up with my coffee spilled down my blouse and I had to take my date to the emergency room. He had a minor concussion. He was a huge asshole though, so I was glad he didn’t call me back. So yeah...not so good at dating.”

 

His look is incredulous, almost grossly intrigued.

 

“wow. you weren't kidding. so, this bee friend of yours is…”

 

Clink. The bottle is on its side.

 

“Not answering that. Besides, it's my turn to ask.” Your tone is quiet, melancholy almost.

 

(He deduces that it's a case of unrequited love...the thought causes him some discomfort.)

 

He deftly catches the bottle when you roll it over to him and looks at you expectantly.

 

“How do you know Toriel, Undyne and Alphys?” 

 

He gives a disbelieving snicker. The bottle goes up firmly, almost challengingly.

 

“that should count as three questions, but whatever. you beat me to the question i wanted to ask next. we were all good friends back in the underground. helped the kid break the barrier.”

 

The answer is vague enough, but monsters have magic and the odd, but touching sense of community...even if there’s more than 500,000 of them spread out around the country. You hum thoughtfully, using your fork to move around the leftover pancake on your plate. 

 

He hands you the bottle after a moment, firmly this time.The contemplative look on his face doesn't prepare you at all for his next question.

 

“how do you know grillby?”

 

The effect is immediate. Your expression crumples dramatically into sadness. Tears edge into your eyes and god, you really want to wipe them away. 

 

Sans lurches forward in his seat a bit, dropping the fries he was about to eat like they had burned him as he reaches out towards you with one hand instead.

 

“wait wait wait! kid! you don't have to answer that, I just saw that picture of him with the doodles on his face in your room…”

 

Sans looks on the verge of panicking right now, but the mention of that photo fills you with such relief….he's talking about Grillby...Grillby the fire elemental who owns a bar and who offered you much in the way of help while you stumbled through high school and still stumbled through life.

 

So it's to his great surprise when you wipe away the tears that were gathering and lift the bottle up decisively.

 

“Grillby is an old family friend too. He met my parents through some other monster friends that umm...advocated with my mom.”

 

He definitely notices your wince this time, but you cut him off, fielding the rest of his questions with an answer of your own. You plow on, laughing a little bitterly.

 

“You have to admit, it’s really weird that I lived in Ebott Town for so long and never knew you...but then again, it's such a big city. I didn’t even meet Alphys or Undyne until I got to New Town.”

 

Sans looks at you, a little surprised that you’re answering his indirect question. You leave the bottle standing up.

 

“Alphys is one of my professors. I met Undyne on the first day of this loop.” You almost laugh and your eyes widen when you realize something. “Actually, it’s kinda your fault. I was late that day to class because I wanted to leave you that note. I ran, tripped, and twisted my ankle. Undyne just happened to be there at the right time and she helped me up. We talked for a little and I made a new friend.”

 

He seems genuinely amazed by the explanation. Your timing really was incredibly random. Even if it took about ten loops for it to work in your favor. Your actions had built up, changed based on your previous experience, to lead you down a path where you met him. (He’s really starting to wonder if there isn’t something more to your not-red Soul.)

 

He’s not surprised by how quickly Undyne’s accepted you. She’s gotten way better than he has at inviting new humans into her circle of friends. Even if she’ll still gut you should you hurt any of her loved ones, she’s much more open minded than when she first came out. As the saying goes, Time heals all wounds.

 

(If only it would stop looping and let him heal, too.)

 

But the day is getting late and you two still have a lot of road to cover before you get to the first clue on the map he strung. There isn’t a lot to go off of right now, especially because Frisk may have changed their route.

 

So quickly, he asks a very eager Lauren for the check. You want to laugh again when you see how flustered he gets when she places her hand on his shoulder again. You mentally thank the universe for giving you this after your earlier pain.

 

Sans glares at you, knowing just how much fun you’re getting from this exchange.

 

“Ten bucks she’s going to write her number on the receipt.” You hiss as she walks away.

 

“you’re being  _ ribdiculous _ .”

 

The receipt arrives and you put up a fight, eventually letting him pay for this round. Next time, you're determined to pay for the meal. 

 

Sans wears a smug smile as he places down the correct amount of cash with a hearty tip.

 

“she was really friendly. great service, tibia honest.” He says sheepishly, and you roll your eyes. Monster or human, all guys were the same.

 

It’s only when he turns over the receipt and freezes that you feel vindicated. There, in very nice handwriting, is her number. Her name loops over the digits with almost cheerful eagerness...and if that’s not enough to clue him in, the little hearts that surround everything certainly are.

 

“Oh.” is all he can say beyond your hysterical giggles.

 

Five minutes, ten dollars, and one awkward, gentle rejection later, you two are out the door and into the sunshine. You feel a little bad, because Lauren had looked absolutely devastated after Sans’ whole “I’m really flattered, but I’m not ready for a relationship right now” spiel. Still, he had been almost despairingly patient with her and very kind, and she had no choice but to send him off.

 

You take a glance at him, admiring Lauren’s handiwork on his bony cheek. Despite his efforts, there’s still a smudge of red in the shape of her lips.

 

“Who would have thought that Snazzy the skeleton would have such game.”

 

“buzz off, bee.”

 

He sounds petulant. Embarrassed even.

 

But your laugh is full and golden, buoyed by the strange relief that threads through you that he hadn’t reciprocated Lauren’s feelings. You quickly schedule that idiotic train of thought for a trip to Garbage Land.

 

The day is too nice for stuff like that.

* * *

 

You stop in a small coastal town, something much bigger than the inlet from earlier and something much smaller than New Town. You shift your backpack higher up your shoulders uneasily, unsure of what to do.

 

“So, what’s the clue here?”

 

Sans silently pulls out his cell phone, thumbs through the screen a bit until he finds what he’s looking for.

 

He flips it towards you, bending a little so you can read it. 

 

There’s a missed call from an unknown number.

 

“i get calls like these every few weeks. no one talks when i pick up, so i’ve stopped trying to answer. but...i can trace the area code and it always shows me a place where i can get some sort of clue. i have no idea who’s doing this, but i’m damn grateful.”

 

His voice is dulled, sounding tired and hopeless. You place a hand on his shoulder to comfort him, but it doesn’t seem to help much. The best you can do is keep looking for some sort of lead. Apparently this town is new to the pattern, so Sans will need all the help he can get.

 

Despite the horror looming over this trip, there’s a certain peacefulness to the whole affair. You can almost believe that you’re on vacation. 

 

The town is very quaint. The houses line the streets in pastel colors. The shops are small and novel. You really like it.

 

Seagrass shifts in the breeze and the sun sinks into the ocean. Tendrils of orange, pink and a disconcerting bit of purple color the sky. You find that thudding in your chest growing stronger as you walk around town, trailing behind a thoroughly concentrating Sans.

 

The boardwalk isn’t crowded. It’s mostly just locals enjoying the summery weather.

 

The residents seem to be all human, and while they cast wary glances towards him, they’re not blatantly offensive...if anything, they seem more curious than threatening.

 

But the hour passes fast, slipping through your grasp like the sand beneath your boots. You feel a slight twinge of panic. It's almost comforting the way time is starting matter again. You're not in a pattern. 

 

Sans expression is quickly darkening though and the sun is low in the sky by the time you two locate a pay phone somewhere along the boardwalk.

 

Sans quickly pulls up the number from earlier on his phone. It matches the digits listed on the side of the pay phone perfectly.

 

“we’re in the right place.”

 

You struggle a little, not sure how to respond. Sans has been calling all the shots since you've started and you follow because you're not an investigator. As it is, nursing students don't do much deduction...that's up to the physicians.

 

Still, you twiddle your thumbs and try.

 

“Hmm...I'm not sure what else you know, but maybe we could try looking for stores or places they might stop at? If they were here, wouldn't they have had to eat? Are there things Papyrus or Frisk like to do?”

 

Sans seems to relax, stowing away his cell phone in his pocket.

 

“that's actually a good place to start. frisk likes sweets. can barely go a day without them. paps likes spaghetti. he's actually a prep cook at a restaurant back home.”

 

Your eyes widen in understanding. There's a lot of hurt associated with Papyrus. And now that you know who he is to Sans, the idea of them being separated for more than ten years is so devastating.

 

“Oh...so that's why when I...back at the magic fusion place...I'm so sorry.”

 

You duck your head, shame and guilt making you wilt. You're surprised when you feel his bony fingers at the top of your head, ruffling your already messy hair.

 

It's quick. Meant to be reassuring, but it still seems like he's afraid of touching you? Maybe not like before but there's still an unsure vibe to it all.

 

“not your fault kid...but thanks for understanding.”

 

Your mouth moves to say more. To say how easily you can understand. To say how you've experienced...but no. This isn't about you and your story is hardly comparable to his.

 

“I think we should try looking for a sweet shop? Or an Italian restaurant? I think I saw one back there, closer to the pier.”

 

You steadily turn on your heels and walk back the way you two came, keeping a sharp eye out for anymore potential places. You don't want to see Sans hurting like that anymore...you want to help him...for reasons beyond just ending a time loop.

 

You're too determined in your search to notice Sans lagging behind you, looking at you with the softest expression.

 

The restaurant is found easily enough by the chartreuse canopy over the entrance. There are festive fairy lights strung around the wide glass entrance and a few potted plants give the whole place a welcoming feel.

 

To complete the quaint picture, there's a little old man sweeping the patio, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows.

 

For some reason, the thudding that keeps you going quickens.

 

He sees you two before you have a chance to speak.

 

“Ah, it's the two of you again! Welcome back friends!” 

 

His grin is infectious, deepening the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth with unadulterated joy.

Wisps of white hair float above his head invitingly, and he’s got the barest of accents muffled underneath his gray beard.

 

He squints at Sans, looking up at him from under the cover of his hand.

 

“Weren't you taller before?” He asks abruptly, and then seems to remember he has glasses. He fumbles a little as he retrieves them from the pocket of his red apron and slides them up his long nose.

 

“Oh, you are most certainly not the tall skeleton.” He looks around Sans’ broad frame to blink at you. “And you're not the other human.”

 

“i’m alfredo i’ve always been this height...well, almost always.” Sans sticks out his hand for a handshake. “name is Snazzy.”

 

The old man places his hand in Sans’ a bit too eagerly and before you can say anything, there's a loud Pffffft floating between the three of you.

 

“SANS!” You shriek, elbowing him hard.

 

The old man seems to be on the verge of cardiac arrest and you fully prepare to start CPR when he starts howling with laughter.

 

“It's no problem young lady. I always did enjoy a good joke. It is a work of fart.” 

 

Sans laughter is full and low. Real. You stifle the urge to scream, instead giving an awkward laugh and introducing yourself as Bee.

 

When introductions are settled and you've assured the old man, Emilio, that you're not there to dine, things move along a lot faster.

 

“heya, bud. do you know how long ago the other skeleton and human were here? how long they stayed in town for?” Sans asks gently, his hands are stuffed into his pockets yet again. But the tension in his stance is all too clear...you know he’s probably all too eager to find out. You can feel your golden hope sway, unfurling fully in this place.

 

“Oh hmmm….let me remember…”  Emilio makes a show of thinking, leaning his cheek on his hand. “Maybe a week ago? They only stayed for a day. The skeleton was very kind. The young one was very polite too...they didn’t say much, simply asked where they could find golden flowers.”

 

You perk up a bit, thoroughly intrigued.

 

“Golden flowers?” you ask, eyes widening at the coincidence. 

 

Emilio nods thoughtfully. 

 

“Yes. The human in particular seemed very interested in them. They even drew what they looked like on a napkin. Unfortunately, the only ones I have seen are in a little field, east of this town.”

 

You feel a small twinge of victory. Another lead. It seems this was successful after all. But when you turn to look at Sans, he's starting not to look okay. He's breaking.

 

“Ah I think we have to go now, but thank you so much Emilio.” you answer, reaching for Sans.

 

“You sure you do not want to try something? Your friends seemed to like the spaghetti, although they both insisted that it was missing edible glitter.”

 

He laughs warmly and Sans stiffens. You feel that weight in your gut and you’re starting to wonder if it’s only you that can feel Sans’ emotions like this.

 

“Ah...again, really thank you so much, Emilio. Maybe if our schedule weren’t so busy? I’m sure your food is wonderful.” 

 

Your voice is steadily getting more panicky, trying to get Sans away from the reminder as soon as you can.

 

“You’ve been so helpful. Have a great evening!” You say kindly as you thread an arm through Sans’ own and hastily tug him out the door, leaving behind a very bewildered old man.

 

Sans doesn’t say anything when you pull him to a small empty dock, jutting out over the water just a few meters from the restaurant.

 

You let go once you reach the edge, hoisting off your backpack and setting it on the damp wood to your right hand side. You clumsily sit down, letting your boots dangle a few feet above the lapping waves. You look up at Sans and pat the spot to your left invitingly.

 

To your relief, he plops himself down silently and you debate a little bit with yourself and say  _ fuck it.  _ Your life has become inextricably tied to this person’s choices and whatever you do now can’t change anything much.

 

Besides, you are starting to feel a little chilly, even with your jacket on. So you take him by surprise when you scooch a little closer to him and press your shoulder to his upper arm. (Gosh darn tall-ass monsters.)

 

He turns to look at you, eyes wide and pinpricks brightening at your daring. He stiffens, awkwardly fiddling with his hands. You listen to the erratic click clack of bone against bone, and decide it can’t hurt much more that you're initiating contact.

 

You don’t say anything. You don’t even really move after that...you just keep staring out into the horizon, the darkening sky swallowing up all the colors and the stars coming out to wink at you one by one.

 

“It’ll be okay, Sans.” You whisper.

 

He gives you a noncommittal grunt, still awkwardly unmoving. You're beginning to wonder if this is too forward of you...but honestly, you're half asleep right now, your head is nodding forward and he still owes you about two hours of nap time.

 

The sounds of kids playing in the water on the beach nearby is nice, and you find your eyes slowly drifting shut. Sans is warm. You already knew that, but here against him, it strikes you just how true that is. His laugh is warm. His magic is warm, mostly. His personality, if somewhat irritating, is warm and you’re really glad for once that he’s your friend.

 

When his arm shifts to snake around your shoulders, and you find your cheek pressed against the fur of his jacket, you blink in surprise. But you’re trying not to move, because the way he places his hand on your shoulder is so hesitant...so careful...you’re a little nervous he’ll freak out if you do.

 

You let yourself drift off again, breathing out a gentle sigh. It does the trick.

 

He relaxes his hold, and you fall asleep, watching the last rays of the sun play across the ivory of his face. You think it’s one of the loveliest things you’ve seen in awhile.

 

You fall asleep to the sound of the rhythmic humming running underneath Sans’ bones.

* * *

 

You don’t remember what you dream of, only that when you wake, the room is lit by the glow of a small lamp on a nightstand. You quickly take in that you’re on a full sized bed, the comforter is still untouched beneath you. Your jacket isn’t on anymore, instead it’s draped over you. You feel a bit gross, having slept in the same outfit you had on all day. Your feet are bare.

 

You have hazy memories of staggering half-asleep into a motel, leaning on Sans as he booked a room. So that settles where you are for now. 

 

But there’s a vague thrashing noise that you recognize as the thing that woke you up. You look to the other bed across from yours and see a bulky form rolling restlessly under the cream sheets.

 

It’s Sans.

 

His brow is furrowed. There’s blue sweat running down the sides of his skull. He’s only dressed in a white shirt and a pair of shorts, but he looks absolutely overheated. His magic is flaring bright, crackling a little around the tips of his fingers that alternate between curling into claws and fanning out in pain.

 

Blue flares in and out underneath his closed left eye. It licks up the sides of his face, eerie and pretty all the same.

 

He’s having a nightmare. 

 

His voice sounds broken as he mutters low against his pillow.

 

“paps...no...no...no...fuck...too late...always  **t o o  l a t e.** ”

 

His hands come up to claw at his face. You leap to action, throwing your legs over the side of the bed and striding the short distance between you two. You hold steadily onto his shoulder, anchoring yourself as your heart leaps into your throat. 

 

“Sans! Wake up! You’re dreaming! It’s okay.  _ It’s not real! _ ” You say loudly, shaking him lightly in the process. He stops thrashing for one whole second, and you believe that it’s okay until his hands come up to grasp yours tightly.

 

His eyes flare open and it takes all you have to stifle a scream. There is absolutely no light in them. They are darker, yet darker, swallowing up your existence as they stare dead on at you.

 

“ **Y o u.”**

 

His magic eases its way up your arms, far heavier than you’ve ever felt it to be. His blue pupil begins to fill up the left socket, swirling into existence with all the anger and intensity of a hurricane. You want to cry, it’s too much. You can feel everything. His grief and loss and anger and you struggle away from him.

 

And all of a sudden, all the light in the room dies out. You are plunged into darkness. All you can see is a flood of blue, Sans slowly rising to loom over you. His hands are still digging into your skin. There is an insistent tugging somewhere in your chest, the thudding grows louder and louder. It’s not your heartbeat. It’s so much slower. So much louder. It drowns out everything.

 

You pull away, falling roughly onto the floor. He begins edging closer. You backpedal into the edge of your bed.

 

“Sans! It’s me ____! PLEASE STOP!” But your voice is swallowed up by the thudding, and with a distinct little pop, like Lauren’s bubblegum bursting, you feel something integral pulled from you.

 

It’s much too bright. Everything is heavy. His magic swells, quickly swallowing up your Soul in a blue light. You can’t even see what color it’s supposed to be.

 

A confrontation. That’s what this is...but Sans isn’t fully aware of anything in this Time. Golden flowers wave in your mind’s eye. And a fierce instinctive desire seizes you. You reach out for the little floating heart, guiding it closer to you.

 

_ “Please don’t break it!” _

 

And just like that, he snaps out of it. The weight is lifted and you begin to shiver. The lamplight blinks into existence once more….But another feeling besets you entirely as you look at the little Soul floating just above your outstretched hands. It’s no longer blue with Sans’ magic.

 

“bee?! bee!!! are you okay?! what did i do?”

 

You dimly register that he’s come to kneel in front of you, but you can’t bring your mouth to move. His voice sounds far away. Watery and so, so anguished...maybe if you were in the right state of mind, you would have hugged him...told him you were okay.

 

But all you can do is focus on the bright heat in your hands.

 

It waits, thudding warmly as you take its appearance to heart. And everything you felt before roils up in you, mingling into the ugliest feelings of fear, disgust and absolute revulsion as it fully registers that this is your Soul...the very culmination of your being.

 

“___? i’m so sorry. please just say something.” Sans whispers brokenly, so carefully because he’s realized that all of your attention is on what he had pulled from the depths of your self.

 

He looks at it momentarily in awe. It’s absolutely gorgeous; earnest, glinting dimly in the lamplight as it thuds steadily. He feels a fierce sense of protectiveness towards it, because it’s you. It’s you in all your stubborn, Persevering glory.

 

“kid...your Soul...it’s purple.”

 

So it is. Lovely, lavender hues shifting iridescently on the translucent surface. There's that ever present thudding, slow and sometimes stuttering….but it keeps going. There’s some glints of a silvery sheen glittering in its depths, and realization strikes you hard.

 

The tears roll down your cheeks, disappointment curling heavily from you and you swear that Sans clutches at his own chest when that happens...he looks like he’s had the air struck out of him. But when he reaches for your hands, carefully avoiding touching your Soul, you jerk back. You hold your hands to your chest, hunching up and away into side of the bed.

 

Hurt tears through his expression, but he quickly realizes none of this is for him. Not now.

 

Your eyes are wide. You are shaking as it follows you, tethered by some invisible force to your movements. It snakes curling purple tendrils in your direction, begging to be accepted.

 

You refuse to look at the Soul, leaving it floating between the two of you. 

 

But what you say next jars him more than anything you’ve ever said before. Your voice is hollow when you whisper-

 

“I don’t want it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you don't want it. 
> 
> THE REALLY WONDERFUL SOUL GIF IS BY SINNABEE. I DON'T KNOW WHAT I DID TO DESERVE HER, BUT HERE WE ARE.  
> Also, let me know, is this slow burn going to fast? is this not slow burn? ahh i mean, believe me, a crush is hardly something to really consider, but it is a start. AHAHA SO MANY OF YOU FIGURED THIS OUT IN EARLIER CHAPTERS. OH BOY OH BOY NEXT CHAPTER WE GET BACK STORY. AT LEAST...ABOUT HALF OF IT.
> 
> shout out to FitofPaige. if you haven't read Spitfire, you are missing out. Reader is a gym trainer and is badass and the story has time shenanigans too.


	11. To Paint Your Story in Shades of Yellow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which we learn some of your backstory, Sans is contrary again, and holy crap there's tension and TIME shenanigans. aka the chapter that ran away from the author.
> 
> SUPER DUPER AMAZING THANK YOU TO THE WONDERFUL SINNABEE. I WILL KEEP SHOUTING HER PRAISES BECAUSE SHE SLOGS THROUGH THIS MESS OF A STORY, SMOOTHS IT OUT TO SOMETHING LEGIBLE AND THEN PROCEEDS TO SCREAM WITH ME.
> 
> THANK YOU FOR BEING SO STUPENDOUS.
> 
> ALSO THANK YOU VERY MUCH TO EVERYONE WHO COMMENTED LAST CHAPTER OMG AND WHO GAVE A KUDOS. YOU MOTIVATE ME SO MUCH.

Yellow is the color of your scarf and your flowers and your comforter. Yellow is the color that paints your memories as you recall the first ever human Soul you saw. Yellow is the color of your mother’s Justice, infallible and searing in its intensity.

 

Everything you are not.

 

Everything you wanted to be.

 

_(Yellow is also his color. Yellow and black and everything sweet.)_

 

_“I don't want it.”_

 

So it's not at all a surprise to you when the words spill from your mouth, your very self recoiling from that purple Soul of yours…the irony weighs heavy. Complementary colors….the very opposite of what you tried so hard to be.

 

The same gray apathy from before is beginning to settle over you and you let it. It's a comforting blanketing numbness that makes the pain of disappointment fade.

 

“I don't want it.” You repeat, this time a little weaker, a little more resigned as you huddle against the edge of your bed, still feeling that strange invisible tether hooked somewhere underneath your ribcage.

 

The little purple heart floats invitingly between you and a clearly fearful Sans. His eyes are wide, lights bright and soft, wavering at the sound of your rejection.

 

His hands are still stretched towards you, frozen in indecision. Beads of sweat run down the side of his head, hesitancy obvious in every line of his body. His magic is reduced to a gentle hum, ebbing like ocean waves in your direction. Tremors seem to travel down his arms in short waves, shaking him, even though he still seems unable to truly move.

 

“k-kid...you need to accept it back...it can't stay out like this.”

 

And he gestures vaguely to your Soul, waving his fingers towards it as if he can somehow guide it with sheer air displacement back into your chest. He so desperately, desperately wants it back in your chest. It’s you. It’s all of you, and he doesn't know how to react to the fact that you're denying that.

 

Still, his voice is trembling...just as full as yours is hollow because there's something intensely embarrassed in his expression beyond all the delicate fear.

 

You don't answer. Merely keep on looking at him and that Soul with the emptiest gaze. He panics when the little heart begins to thud erratically, fluttering like a maimed bird. _That’s you._ It’s everything you are _._ And it’s sitting out in the open, getting ready to fall apart.

 

Already, he can feel a detached sense of sorrow floating from it. The silvery tendrils that spiral from its center are dissipating in the dim light of the room. All your emotions are palpable and he can't take it. Your Soul is fraying. _Your Soul is dying, veritably wilting in the face of your rejection._

 

He won't let that happen. He won’t let these loops unravel you in the way they have him. His panic is immeasurable. But he can’t deal with that right now. Resolve pushes into his expression as he moves past the heart to hold your shoulders. His forehead is pressed against yours, and you dimly register the familiarity of the gesture.

 

Your anchor. Your warmth. Your neighbor, the only one changing with the circling of Time.

 

His eyes search yours, frantically shifting to catch your distant gaze. The panic still seeps into his voice. He is desperate. He can’t...

 

“____! please….i'm begging you...take it back. i can't….i can't do this alone.”

 

His words sound strained...as if he's holding back tears. And sure enough, through your fear and disgust and gray apathy, there's an inkling of worry for him when you see the blue translucent beginnings of tears at the corners of his eyes. You're not sure why, but it's enough to muster what's left of yourself.

 

You pull away from him, mentally tugging on that fraying invisible tether. And just like that, the little Purple heart flutters home to roost in your chest with a welcome little pop.

 

And still it thuds...faster and panicked like a caged bird underneath your skin. You move to cover the area in your chest through which it had slipped through, as if you can smother it to death if your press hard enough. Your nails dig into your sweater, dull and ineffectual. You are crushed underneath the onslaught of your returned feelings.

 

Your breath hitches. The tears roll down your cheeks, unbidden and cold.

 

Your keening sobs are muffled as Sans gathers you up in a careful embrace, fingers tenderly threading themselves through your messy hair as you cry into his shirt. There is something scared and relieved in the way he holds you, and you mistake the light tremors running through his bones as your own.

 

It's slightly uncomfortable. Without the stuffing of his jacket in place, the ridges of his clavicle dig into your chin, but you don't care much when the discomfort is the only thing keeping you centered in the present.

 

You bring up your hands to grip onto the back of his shirt, afraid.

 

_You think of dust, gritty and gray on your fingers. You think of watching and doing nothing. You think of your not-yellow Soul._

 

He can't say anything. What can he say to someone rejecting their very self? Guilt wracks him when he remembers what he thought of your Soul before he got to know you...low DT, useless to him...and now he would take it all back...swallow back every mean thing he'd ever said or implied if it would make you accept the very culmination of your being.

 

And your repeated whispers sear into his heart, compounding hurt upon guilt. His Soul aches.

 

_“I d-don't want this, Sans. Take it away for me.”_

 

Something in him lurches, his magic whirling wildly when those words leave your lips. He can feel the warm air of your breath rushing past his sternum, joining the heat that rises up his spine and swirls in his own Soul.

 

 _You don't know what you've offered. You don't know what you're saying_. He calms himself with these thoughts, because he's still shaking from everything he's felt from you. The insistent tugging in his chest slows down a bit, still trying to act on your request. But that wouldn't help you. Not one bit.

 

All he can do is cradle you, breathe in your scent through his nasal cavity, and let the dead air sink in his empty chest until your sobs trail off into pitiful hiccups that make his very self hurt.

 

It's all he can do.

* * *

 

The brief whir of the tiny microwave sounds steadily, weaving in and out of the sounds of the ocean that thread through the open window.

 

It's still pitch black outside, the street lamps breaking up the darkness with pools of golden light. A few small moths flit in, their little wings fluttering against the lampshade.

 

You're still shivering on the floor, wrapped up hastily in the extra tan blanket Sans had found in the closet for you. Your eyes are vacant, watching as the two blue ceramic mugs travel around and around inside the microwave, moving in ever the same pattern.

 

Distantly, you think that you should be the one comforting him...he just woke up from a nightmare and into a reality that was perhaps just as stressful. You weren't doing him any favors by being here. You shouldn't try and delude yourself.

 

Sans seems anxious. He's tried to break the tension a few times with tea jokes, but none of them quite stick the landing. He startles a bit when the microwave beeps, and he's still a little hesitant when he pulls out the warmed mugs of chamomile tea.

 

“good thing you brought that small stash of tea.” He grins warmly at you as he hands you one of the mugs. “although I guess you were shaving it for later.”

 

His smile drops when he sees you don't laugh.

 

You finally tear your eyes away from the microwave and look up at him as you take the warm cup into your chilled hands. You feel so drained, but still you try and form the words...try and let your gratitude spill out, but you can't quite manage a sound.

 

Your mouth a soundless “thank you” and it seems to be enough for now, because he settles himself on the floor across from you with a heavy grunt.

 

There's something tilting on a precipice here, something integral that needs to be broached. You both have your share of secrets and still, that disappointment chokes out all your words until all you can do is ask-

 

“W-where do we start?”

 

And there's no patterns here. No intricate chart with newspaper clippings and red string to give you both some semblance of guidance. You're flying blind here, flitting just as stupidly into the light as the moths in the corner.

 

You stare into the depths of your tea, as if it can tell you the answers.

 

But Sans is Patient in the best of ways, and he gives you gentle silence to support you. You don't see his fingers tighten and loosen around the mug in his hands a few times.

 

“that's up to you kid...we don't have to start,” He offers, and somehow he sounds reluctant and eager at the same time. You know he's on the same page as you. It might very well be a trade...maybe a little uneven and incomplete, but you want to ask your share of questions and he his.

 

Still, it's kind of sweet how he's giving you an out, but you know that if you don't say anything, all the thoughts and feelings you feel distantly now will be debilitating later on.

 

But you can barely bring yourself to look away from the gently curling steam, clutching the mug close to your chest.

 

He's waiting and you are watching...and even if your Soul is an achy purple, stupid stupid Barney the dinosaur purple...your golden hope still waves powerfully in your mind.

 

You set down your tea, and splay a hand over the general area where you are sure you can still feel your Soul thudding in your chest.

 

“Here.” You say grimly. “Here's good.”

 

You offer all this hesitantly as you look at him full on. You strike before he can formulate questions you’d really rather not answer. You grow bolder with every word, in spite of your reeling existential crisis.“I'm going to tell you a story. You can ask questions after, capiche?”

 

He seems genuinely surprised at your words. You've stolen the ones he had so confidently used on you, turned them back on him in the frailest way possible. The way you say _capiche_ makes him think you're pleading more than anything. But still, you are trying.

 

“capiche.” He says as he raises his mug towards you.

 

You heave a deep breath, your shoulders shuddering with the movement. He resists the urge to give you another out. That's not going to help this time around. He merely waits.

 

His presence gives you courage

 

“It...it starts with my mom-”

 

“doesn't it always? according to that freud guy, anyway.”

 

You heave a watery laugh, wiping away at the remaining tears that pool on the corners of your eyes. Your throat is still scratchy from crying, so you end up coughing into your sleeve to clear it. You bring your mug to your lips, blowing a little on the hot beverage so that the warm chamomile can soothe your hurt.

 

You sip slowly.

 

“I thought I said questions after.” You admonish jokingly, peering up at him from over the lip of your mug. Your eyes are focused now, still dim, but cutting through the twisting steam to draw him in again. But you're feeling better...even if you are now made aware of the thudding deep within you that feels like something foreign and unwanted.

 

“go on.”

 

His encouragement buoys you beyond your doubts.

 

“She...She’s always fought for something. I don't know if you're aware, but even before you guys came to the surface again, humans have always had points of contention.”

 

“i’m vaguely aware, though i’ve never really looked into specifics. too depressing.”

 

You snort derisively...and still it feels distant...empty.

 

“It is, but I'm not going to make grand sweeping statements about the nature of humanity...I don't think that's ever a great idea...there's good and bad in people. And there's always people who are going to fight for what they believe is right.”

 

Sans merely stays quiet, nodding at you to keep going.

 

“My mother fought for other humans...it was only fitting she would be one of the first to advocate for monsters.”

 

You can practically see the gears turning in his skull, the lights in his eyes growing sharper as they focus hard on you. He's looking for a resemblance. They always do...and they’ll always be disappointed.

 

“bee...what's your mom’s name?”

 

You grimace as you say it, the syllables twisting into a bitter taste on your tongue.

 

Recognition dawns in his expression, and he tries to hide it by taking a sip of his lukewarm tea, the liquid somehow draining past that ever closed smile of his. But still, her name rings powerful in his memory. He's never met her, but monsters and humans both know of her accomplishments in advocating.

 

“that's uh...a pretty big shadow to be under.”

 

You give him a dubious look. He's just stated the obvious connection.

 

“Everyone's always told me that I should be proud to have a mom like her...that I was going to grow up and do great things like she did. Even my dad...my dad adores her…he thinks she can do no wrong. She's always the first to do something. I've never been the type to act first...but I tried.”

 

The memories pile higher and higher, guilt and self hate spreading through you as you remember.

 

“I tried so _damn_ hard Sans. So damn hard. I told everyone I was going to study law, so I could defend people in court. I joined debate teams, gave up guitar and softball and running so that I could be just like her.”

 

You don't feel the usual anger anymore. All that wasted time seems like chump change when compared to the current circumstance you’re trapped in. Your eyes dim. You slump against the end of your bed, tired and worn.

 

He looks at you as if seeing you for the first time, his smile is slack. His top and bottom teeth are set apart for the first time since you’ve known him. He looks like he's in a state of shock.

 

You really want to ask about that, but right now is hardly the time.

 

“would it be annoying if i said i know the feeling?”

 

You laugh without humor, thoughts of skeleton anatomy dissipating entirely.

 

“No. It's not annoying. Everyone's got the shadow they're chasing, right? It's not fair that I get to whine about this and you don't...sorry...I mean all of this is pretty _petty_ compared to-”

 

“don't.” He cuts you off sharply. “don't start comparing scars, bud. whatever you're going through is just as valid as what anyone else is feeling.”

 

You look at him, taking in the sight of his earnest gaze. The shadows play lovingly across the divots of his bone, deepening every angle until you're left with nothing but an eerie, yet beautiful image of his face...the way he seems to be looking right at you, for who you are in this moment. It's just enough to keep you talking.

 

You lean your head back against the bed, that same strange heat from before blooming up your neck as you stare up at the popcorn ceiling.

 

“Hers was the first Soul I saw. She asked Queen Toriel to pull her into a Confrontation...I'm not sure if it was out of curiosity or to show everyone else watching that monsters could be trusted...but, yeah...you can guess what color it was. It's kind of obvious.”

 

You give a self-deprecating laugh.

 

“The culmination of your very being, they said. A perfectly glorious yellow Soul, they said...I started wearing so much yellow, it became my thing...part of the reason I got the nickname Bee...just a small part.”

 

You pause, unsure if you want to keep going. The carpet feels rough underneath your fingers, slightly warmed by the tea you've placed on the ground.

 

Your throat feels dry, but he's still watching you. You can feel his sight trained on you with that same heavy feeling you felt when you'd barely even known of his existence.

 

Overall, you feel distantly tired and hurt. There's more to the story, but you decide to start winding up the yarn, stowing away the rest of it for another day.

 

“She uhh... _we_ lost a few monster friends during an attack on a protest.” You say so heavily. He knows you feel the loss personally, even if you’re still refusing to look at him. He can imagine the kind of pained expression that would flit over your face. “She wasn't the same after that...but whatever she did after helped the Queen’s adoption of Frisk go through the court system easier...and then I nearly screwed up everything.”

 

Your hands fist into the blanket, still feeling that gritty precious dust. Your eyes burn, but you don't want to cry anymore.

 

“I decided to become a nurse with the magical medicine program. I had great grades, wasn't too hard to get in. I left Ebott, hoping I could change...that I could make a difference. Hoping that no matter what mistakes I may have made, no matter how low my Determination...that at least my Soul had Justice running through it. It's why I've avoided finding out the color all these years.”

 

You finally lower your head to look directly at him, and you don't know it, but the way your eyes burn with that tinge of bitter wisdom, the way your pretty mouth is wilted into a sad little smile makes him want to reach forward...to do more than just place a hesitant hand on your shoulder. But he stops himself, because there's even more questions in your eyes and in his mind, all jumbled together to create a hazy impression of what he's just heard and what he still has to say.

 

“kid...i'm not…i uh...i’m sorry...about everything.”

 

“Don't apologize for something that's out of your control, remember?” You say a little bitterly, doing the worst impression of him he’s ever heard. But still it's enough to bring relief into his old bones, letting him return your sad smile with one of his own.

 

“stick to sarcasm. impressions don’t seem to be your strength. but yeah...i don't know if this’ll help at all...monsters don't really ah..monsters always really like their Souls...without question…”

 

He trails off and seems to debate with himself on what to say. He's not used to this. Humans have been living without the knowledge of Souls for thousands of years...without much magic, without anything. They've been going blind and he's never thought he'd be in this predicament...but something settles in his face and he looks a lot more determined to make you feel better.

 

“if it's any consolation...you are what you do...and if anyone's an honorary justice soul, it's you, ___.” He looks a bit embarrassed at that, and you're so much in denial, purple still blazing bright in your memory that you snort.

 

“I don't act, Sans. I don't move as fast as I should. I make mistakes and it takes me a long time to learn.” You sound defeated, sinking into yourself all over again.

 

“don't!”

 

His voice is oddly more forceful this time around, he looks almost angry...but the lights in his eyes are still gentle, like the flames of candlelight.

 

“you are you. your intentions, your wishes, your hopes, your memories. everything that you've done...that’s you.”

 

“Is it, though?”

 

“yeah. it is.” He presses on, gathering more steam. “i mean who else would go out of their way to save some random monster kid? who else would spend their days repeating patterns and learning to save people they might just have a chance to?”

 

He's leaning forward now, hands on his legs as he draws close to you, hoping to make you see.

 

“you fail so many times, but you still get up and go, and that’s incredible. that should be just about enough.” He finishes, looking at you through the corner of his eyes, too embarrassed by his earnest observations to look at you fully.

 

He looks so vehement about his points and you are still spinning...he knows about your clockwork. He knows about you're patterns and your attempts. And yet...he thinks you're strong. He thinks you're you.

 

You're all out of tears, but still your eyes burn. You stare into the depths of your tea, the slightly golden color of the chamomile making you feel queasy.

 

“I..Sans...thank you.”

 

You lift your head to gaze at him, eyes swimming in genuine appreciation. Still there are questions that linger there and he's still not ready.

 

“just statin’ the truth, kid.” He says really quietly, fidgeting a lot more with the handle of his mug. He looks anxious...about many things.

 

Despite his deflections, you are astute. You laugh a little, but still keep your gaze trained on him, eyes shifting to take in every detail. He thinks that you're preparing to ask about his nightmare, and it's only fair. But still, his words resonate incredibly within you and you feel a strange sense of understanding.

 

So you manage to circumvent his expectations again.

 

“It really helps, you know? To talk about things.” You shrug, trying not to sound forceful.  “But I'm not forcing you. It's not fair to you. God knows I've barely shared everything there is...you'd hate me if I did.”

 

And you look so broken, just as wilting as the flowers you had left behind on your dining table, when you say that. You pull your knees up to your chest, circling your arms around them.

 

He notices that you always do that. Try and take up as little space as possible...it's why he adores teasing you...making you irritated enough that you unfurl into an angry, passionate being...thoroughly engaging, and with all of your attention on him.

 

He has to brush past that thought. It makes no sense at all, and all he knows is true is that you're wrong.

 

“i don't think i could ever hate you, bee.” He says this quietly, eyes drifting away to look at his hands in his lap. He fiddles with them, the click-clack of bone against bone oddly endearing and familiar.

 

“Me neither, Sans.”

 

He doesn't answer, but something in the way his smile tightens tells you he doesn't believe you.

 

You're going to make it a point to prove it to him. You're both friends by now...friends on a long journey. What kind of friend would you be if you abandoned him for whatever secrets he's hiding? You're utterly convinced there's nothing he could tell you that would cause you to think otherwise. Heat suffuses your cheeks as you think about what to say next.

 

The dull ache is ebbing away, slowly in the presence of his warmth. You still feel a little gross in your clothes and the tear tracks make your cheeks feel sticky. Your throat is throbbing from all the crying and spilled confessions. But there’s so much to thank him for, and all you can say is-

 

“I'm glad it’s you I'm here with.” You smile fondly at him, the brief happiness at the thought edging into your eyes.

 

He can't seem to form any words, and you mentally tally this as a victory. He's already doing that adorable flustered thing where he tries tucking his chin into his collar, but without his jacket, the effect is somewhat more awkward.

 

The silence stretches between you two, strained and somehow tinged with a new expectation. He's looking at you, but you don't want to delve too deep into it. So you distract yourself by standing up to set your mug back onto the small table with the microwave on it and you head to your backpack to pull out some sweats and a shirt to sleep in.

 

By the time you're turned around, he's already in his bed, sheets wrapped tightly around him and a pillow over his head. Light snoring emanates from under the pillow, and you marvel at his ability to fall asleep on demand.

 

“Goodnight, Sans.” You mutter quietly, closing the door of the bathroom as quietly as you can behind you.

 

He waits until he hears the sound of the shower running to pull his head out from under the pillow.

 

“goodnight, ____.”

 

* * *

 

 

You're in the field of golden flowers again. They start to dance, the tepid breeze blowing through them caresses your face, makes your hair drift aimlessly.

 

The stars careen across the inky horizon that extends beyond the field. Behind it all, there's a strange stillness, it's almost suffocating in its expanse, but the golden flowers loom bright in front of you.

 

You kneel down, wet loamy earth dampening your jeans, but it's refreshing. You bend to cup one of the dancing blooms, fingers tenderly brushing against the veiny petals.

 

_Make a wish._

 

The voice startles you. It comes from somewhere behind your shoulder and you shudder. It is incredibly sweet and childish, gently coaxing...but the inherent darkness of it overrides the command and the flower is forgotten as you stand up and turn.

 

“Who’s there?” You call, your own voice is somehow soundless and loud all at once.

There is a brief tittering laugh, but then it is gone, swept up in the warm air and to the starry expanse above. The flowers keep dancing around your knees.

 

An eery sound like static begins fading in and out all around you. You recognize it with a startling familiarity, and as scared as you should be, the sound is too much like the buzzing of bees to make you feel much fear.

 

You feel your mouth curl into a wry grin, of its own accord. Distantly, it's as if you're watching a memory unfold before you, and everything moves forward.

 

The static increases, gathering particles of glittering dust and pulling inky black from among the golden petals that litter the ground. It all coalesces, waving and flowing around that single orange glow you've come to recognize as a Soul. The shadow person forms once more, and a foreign fondness laces it's way through your chest, pulling out that something integral you hated.

 

“Hello again, [REDACTED].” You hear yourself say, your mouth moving on its own again. There's nothing in you. All of your emotions are outside of your consciousness, floating between the two of you in that same gentle, strength colored purple.

 

A few of the little stars that spark across the person’s white face clear away as his gaping black mouth gives you a welcoming smile.

 

He points to your Soul, an approving look manifesting in the inky depths of his eyes. The stars are dissipating a bit, enough for you to see the expectation deep in his gaze.

 

Here somehow, the pain is a lot more bearable. Here, time doesn't have much sway, and your Soul is just another part of you, as natural as your limbs or heart.

 

You glance briefly at the purple Soul, letting it hover for a bit more, before you call it back to you. You startle when the sensation of it entering is a little more forceful here. Your face must be comical because he starts laughing.

 

His laughter sounds like bells on snow, muffled tinkling noises that are soothing and irritating all at once. He brings up a disembodied hand, and briefly you catch sight of the bony components, all correct and in line save for the gaping hole in the center.

 

“You should really get that fixed.” You muse, just before his laugh fills the air again and he makes a brief tugging motion, pulling out your Soul again to seemingly examine it further.

 

You've long learned that intent is everything and he doesn't seem to be threatening. You don't even really care enough about your Soul to make a big fuss about all this.

 

“I would give it to you...but something tells me I'm not suppose to.” You muse humorlessly, and a wry grin curls your lips as he looks a bit startled at the statement.

 

A series of bell like tolls and irritated buzzing comes from him. It sounds like he's denying you or something. Embarrassed even? He's stopped looking at it, pale face turned away as if he's seen something indecent.

 

Something about the way he averts his gaze from it makes you feel a little overexposed, but you can't do anything because he then makes a sweeping motion and you are pushed off the edge of existence.

 

Your Soul follows through, keeping you tethered to it, slowing down your descent? Ascent? Like a strange little purple balloon, it sails through the growing darkness, leading you by that invisible string.

 

You're not really sure what is up or down.

 

Fear is absent as you are embraced by the stars.

* * *

 

 

Summer sunshine wakes you as it drifts golden through the window.

 

There's the sharp cries of seabirds as they wheel through the clear blue skies and for a moment, you feel a strange sense of calm as you lift yourself up from the bed.

 

Your pulse beats slowly in your ears and then you remember all too clearly the discovery of yesterday. Your hand is splayed over your chest; that strange slow thudding layered just underneath your heartbeat is all too clear now.

 

You lay there for a few moments, letting it all sink in. Vaguely aware of the time, you look to see that Sans’ bed is empty, the sheets crumpled into a ball in the very center.

 

There isn't much more you can do, short of destroying the Soul yourself….but something tells you that's probably the worst idea possible. And like always, when faced with a problem, you try and reason it out using science and logic.

 

Soul colors have the most barely significant correlations with the reality of what the possessor is like. The lives they lead are never fully determined by their highest trait. Your university has done some studies...things you slogged through with a mechanical zeal during your second year.

 

Sure those with green Souls were more likely to engage in volunteer activities and those with orange Souls were more likely to have risks pay off, but the associations were loose and vague. Arbitrary measurements marked the experiments and you let that comfort you.

 

Because the associations for purple Souls were few and far between. A study or two had concluded that those with purple Souls were more likely to have success later in life. There was another that said those with purple Souls had a higher rate of depression, but that was neither here nor there.

 

Even if it's supposed to be the culmination of your very being, there's something in that deep thudding that's not entirely you. It's not a decision you made and everything about it seems detached. It's just like nature versus nurture...what makes a person tick is a lot more complicated than one or the other.

 

So it’s why you’re going to make a distinction between Soul and _soul_.

 

Because your Soul may be purple, but it sure as hell isn't all of you....at least that's what you want to believe. Despite your disappointment and all your tribulations...you're still you.

 

You _refuse_ to believe otherwise. And with that, you start the rest of your day.

* * *

 

He woke before you, eager for once to leave the bed and do something because the emotions from yesterday are still wreaking havoc on him. Your feelings and his had blended into a disastrous amalgamation. He wonders if this is what you felt back in the hospital, when he had inadvertently doused you in his disappointment.

 

He really has a lot to make up to you, doesn't he? It's obvious by your confessions from yesterday that you'd been broken long before the loops had started. There's something else missing to the story, something as integral as the Soul you rejected.

 

It's all a hazy mess. Guilt for what he's made you feel, horror at your reaction to a wonderfully bright Soul, terror at the fact that he had drawn you into a confrontation without knowing...he nearly hurt you and you'd done nothing but confide in him all over again.

 

You are a roiling, contradictory anomaly, teetering on the fine line between dumb luck and skill. You with your Perseverance, stumbling and standing up over and over again.

 

You confound him and comfort him. And there's nothing else to be done about your woeful ignorance of monster culture and Souls.

 

So hidden underneath all that mess is a heated embarrassment...he'd seen your Soul...even after the end of a Confrontation. You'd just left it there, vulnerable and prone in front of him. You’d all but offered it to him and he had been so close...so close to letting his magic accept the offer.

 

He's never seen an ugly Soul, but yours was bright and earnest and genuinely trying with that uneven thudding it so gently exuded. It was beckoning and confused. Resisting was very difficult. The implications astronomically too romantic and integral for you to realize.

 

It was no wonder he could barely look you in the eye after all was said and done.

 

But coffee seems to be a good way to make amends, so as soon as he had gotten dressed, he had snuck out and bought two mocha lattes. The local coffee shop was woefully out of vanilla cake, so he'd bought two slices of pound cake instead.

 

He hears the muffled sounds of movement in the room, and it's a little hard to knock with the coffee and cake slices in his hands, so he uses his magic to open the door, not thinking much about what you're doing.

 

But whatever he may have thought, he sure as hell wasn't expecting the sight that greeted him.

 

You seem slightly more chipper, smiling as you look out the window, tilting your head towards the sunbeams. You stretch out your arms, curving your back until the air pops deliciously through the gaps in your spine. The sounds snake upwards into your neck as you extend your arms overhead, moving your head side to side to crack your neck.

 

Your plain shirt has slightly pulled up to reveal a sliver of your lower back, the skin healthy and tracing the barest outline of your individual vertebrae, edged underneath by the band of your dark sweats.

 

The crackling snaps wrack him through with the strangest warmth. He is both a little scared and a little too curious as to how you make those sounds, but his eyes involuntarily follow the lines of your body, sweeping upwards until they rest with a deep intensity on the tilt of your neck and the faint smile you still have.

 

“uh…” Is all he can muster, all tangled thoughts for the moment are silenced in the wake of your morning stretch. He feels that familiar heat flood his zygomatic arches, and he knows damn well he's blue in the face.

 

He catches your attention, and your entire expression brightens at the sight of him. It's usually not hard to read the emotions on your face, you're really bad at controlling them...so it's with all the clarity of the time spent with you that he realizes you're genuinely happy to see _him._

 

“Good morning, Sans!” You chirp, turning around and lowering your arms to look at him fully.

 

That smile of yours is broad and beautiful in the summer sun. Some of your hair falls delicately from the messy style you tried tying it back in. And there is the barest trace of hurt in those bright eyes of yours.

 

_(Somehow…someway....you've made yourself okay. And he wonders just how much stronger you are than him.)_

 

He finds the inkling of an answer swirling in the depths of your eyes....A passionate refusal that would have made his heart jump into his throat if he had one.

 

“uh...morning, bud.”

 

His hold on the carton with the coffee tightens, crunching slightly.

 

“crap.”

 

The entire thing tilts away, and he nimbly manages to balance it again. Some of the coffee sloshes outside of the cup and drips onto the carpet.

 

The blue outline of his magic fades slightly, even as he feels the warmth of it still trailing up the left side of his face. He’s breathing a little harder, and whether it’s because of the magic use or you, he can’t say.

 

(Yes. Yes he can. It's you.)

 

“Oh...hey...uh, nice reflexes!” You say sweetly, making your way to him to help out.

 

He gives an awkward laugh, feeling it catch in his mouth as he tries to right everything within himself back to a state of coherence.

 

“it coulda _bean_ a bad situation.” He jokes and nearly laughs again when you groan at the coffee pun. Carefully, he avoids your wiggling fingers, lifting the tray high above his head where your tiny human hands can't reach.

 

You step forward without thinking, the aroma of the coffee already piquing your interest and making you feel more awake by the second.

 

All you can see is the tray of coffee, balanced precariously in his raised hand, high above your head. You tiptoe, leaning against him to steady yourself as you reach for the cups. There’s little hope of actually getting them, but the moment he feels the light clink of his zipper hitting the pendant of your necklace, he realizes just how close you’ve come.

 

He feels that familiar sweeping blue paint his cheek bones. And he can hear the faint thudding of your Soul, threading softly through your rougher heartbeat.

 

Sans is barely able to comprehend what the hell he’s feeling before you give up and pull away. Already, the air begins to feel a little colder without you nearby and he reluctantly brings down the coffee as a peace offering. The sweat beading on his skull starts to feel frigid...pleasantly refreshing in the haze you’ve left him in.

 

“y-you seem a lot better this morning.” He wonders if you catch his slight stutter, but you seem to be too invested in picking the right drink to notice. He tilts the tray closer to you, and laughs a little when you make a show of sniffing the contents of one cup.

 

“This one’s a mocha latte!” You cheer, faint nostalgia tinging your voice. You make a show of smelling the other one and give him a dubious look.

 

“They’re the same. ” You snort when you notice the name on the sides. “Snas...really clever.”

 

“you _mocha_ me so proud with your observational skills.” He snickers at your bewildered expression.

 

The smile you give in return is soft and friendly...it’s still enough to make him unbelievably satisfied. The resolve from whatever you’ve decided seems to be holding up. You’ve pulled yourself together back into a semblance of normalcy.

 

You confidently pluck out the cup with the most coffee left in it, and proceed to blow adorably across the top of it to cool it off.

 

He doesn’t know why, but he’s starting the find the weirdest things about you endearing, and it’s driving him insane. Logic and reason seem to fly out the window where you’re involved and it’s a little hard not to let himself have fun. You’re anchoring him...dragging him into a present he’s never wanted to stay in. It’s a realization that hits him far harder than he expected.

 

He's let himself be mired in these moments, dancing in these pleasing circles that do nothing but gamble away time neither of you have.

 

Still you smile at him with that expectation and he can't read the future in those bright eyes of yours. He thought he'd been ready...but now, he's not so sure.

 

He can’t keep doing this. Papyrus and Frisk are on a time limit. This isn’t supposed to be fun.

 

He sets down the cakes and his coffee near the microwave, somewhat harder than necessary. It startles you, and he feels a little bad, but resolve is growing strong and frigid within him, pricking him to _go go go. For once, he listens._

 

“we should head out soon.” His smile is tight, he can feel it strain under his cheeks. His teeth are grit against the very parts of him that are rebelling against the slight hurt crossing your face. There’s a sudden shift in the atmosphere, but gentleness has never gotten him far. Not here on the surface where it seems like “kill or be killed” is simply hidden under the disguise of bureaucratic messes.

 

The light in your eyes dims, darkening the color to something richer...sadder. Something shifts painfully in him, but he can't say anything because you're already moving away from him.

 

“Sure thing...just, ah...let me get packed.”

 

You don’t say much else when you set down your coffee and rush to the closet to start folding back what little you unpacked.

 

He feels a lump in his throat when he notices that your latte and cake are untouched. He lets his head fall into his hands with a sad clunk, shame and everything else welling up.

 

“i’m the worst.” Sans whispers to himself, and still, it’s not enough to make him apologize.

* * *

 

 

It's easy enough to get directions to the golden flowers. It's easy enough to commit the way to memory, there's only two freeways you'll have to take.

 

But it's not easy to try and regain back some of your earlier ease. Sans is prickly. The shift in his moods is dizzying, and even if he never outright snaps, some of his comments are sharper than normal.

 

You’re glad for the thundering noise of the air rushing past you on the motorcycle. The landscape twists and shifts into rolling hills covered in high green grass, occasionally a few  orange wild flowers edge the valleys in between the peaks, and it's utterly beautiful enough to make you forget that Sans is back to sitting as far away as he can behind you.

 

The day is hot, growing steadily warmer as you head inland away from the sea. But you can't find it in yourself to be anything but tired. It's been a long few days, and you can't find it in you to say something when you're barely holding yourself together after the Soul debacle.

 

But all is forgotten when after an hour of driving, you turn into a patch of dirt on the right side of the road. The highway is empty and it's easy enough to park your bike just at the edge where the grass begins dusting the ground...eventually it thickens into a field of golden flowers, glinting wonderfully under the sun.

 

The surrounding hills are rougher here, outcroppings of reddish rock jutting into the green of the field abruptly. Here and there are small crevices, places where there is shade and flowers still grow stubbornly.

 

You stand in awe, marveling at the expanse as Sans comes up behind you. He's still relatively quiet, choosing instead to look at a worn notebook he's brought with him, pencil set in between that odd separated set of teeth you've recently discovered.

 

The sight of the golden flowers is just enough to make you get over your weariness so that you rush forward into the field, letting the swaying stems brush against your jeans, as if welcoming you home.

 

You know you shouldn't cry...but..

 

“It's almost exactly like the field outside of Ebott Town.” You exclaim excitedly, a smile flowering on your lips. It's just like the one that resolves itself into a sharp bluff just over the water. Just like the one in the picture of your parents. Just like the one your friend and you used to play catch in.

 

“ebott’s got a lot of these flowers, kid. i wouldn't know which one in particular you're referring to.” He says dully, still looking at his notes, making dissatisfied observations as he scribbles something down.

 

But you know exactly which one. Miles away across an entire country, and these flowers are the closest you'll ever get to the past.

 

_Make a wish._

 

The voice echoes in your head, oddly foreboding. You can barely remember what you dream about anymore, but something tells you that you shouldn't listen to it.

 

You cup one of the large blooms in your hands, fingers brushing the veiny petals as you kneel in the dirt. You bend down to smell that strange bittersweet scent, familiar and alarming.

 

But you refuse to make a wish. You are grateful, for everything that's happened so far...even if Sans is in a bad mood and you're tired and your Soul is purple. You accept all of this.

 

And then you are hit with the strongest sense of missing something. Like a scratched CD, going ahead and skipping a small section of a familiar song.

 

Sans seems to tear his gaze away to look at you in that instant, and you feel the thudding in your chest stutter.

 

His eyes are far from hollow. They are wide with curiosity and fear, the lights have softened enough to fill most of the center...he looks starry eyed as he looks at you, sitting in a field of golden flowers.

 

The wind picks up, setting them into a frantic dance. Your hair waves in the breeze, and you have to tuck back several strands because they irritate your nose.

 

And there is a wordless question in his eyes, because they dart between you and the flowers and the sun.

 

(That sun that seems just a little bit lower in the sky in his calculating mind.)

 

You don't know what he's asking and you're not going to deign him your interest. Instead you skip over the niceties and recall the red thread on the corkboard.

 

“Why did we come here? What are we looking for?” You ask matter-of-factly, still kneeling among the blooms. You feel the inkling of answer well up and Sans seems just as lost as you are found.

 

“i...i can't think of what to look for.” He looks abashed as he scratches the back of his head with that familiar _skirch_ sound. Confusion and hesitation mar his smile. “i’m going to try and figure something out.”

 

You hum noncommittally, still a little too irritated with his mood to ask what's wrong.

 

He makes his way to your bike, still too slow and stumbling to let you think that he's okay.

 

But Time is slipping fast and something tells you to stand up and keep looking. Sans will be okay for now. So you do, brushing off the dirt from your knees and blue shirt. There's a strangeness here. As if nothing matters and everything moves...you can't pinpoint what it is, but you're both spiraling into something odd.

 

You move further into the field, leaving a confused Sans to look through the other papers he brought with him.

 

The sunshine begins to blur everything, every corner and every crevice has golden flowers that wave in the breeze...but the sweet, cloying scent makes you sway on the spot. Through your half-lidded gaze, they look like tiny golden stars.

 

A sharp little gasp rips you from the haze.

 

You blink awake and the scene resolves itself into sharper clarity...the flowers here are just flowers, but there's one among them...a little larger with a simpering smile.

 

“What the hell?” You breathe in surprise. You've never seen a flower monster before.

 

You don’t have time to Act. The moment it sees you are aware of its presence, you're screwed.

 

Several vines wind around your ankles and waist, faster than you can blink. There's a distinct crawling feeling across your neck that settles into a leaf pressed up against your mouth.

 

Your words are stopped up, muffled and strangled. You scrabble at the tendrils, but they are thick and you are scared. It gets worse when one wraps around your neck, not tight enough to choke, but enough to let you know you're in trouble.

 

The flower draws closer, stretching on its stem to raise itself to the level of your head. It looks at you with the strangest sense of approval.  You can't do much but struggle when it pulls you into a confrontation.

 

That familiar popping sound is heard, tugging your unwanted Soul out of you.

 

Vaguely, you think that two confrontations in less than ten hours is ridiculous, especially when you have managed to avoid ever having one since you first knew about monsters. But then the entirety of your world has shifted into colors of gray and white, all focused on the smiling flower that bobs up and down to a tune you can't hear.

 

“Howdy. It's nice to see you again, ____.” The reedy voice has an underlying anger, and even if it seems like the sweetest thing, you feel an inherent wrongness about this being.

 

His beady black eyes take in every facet of that purple Soul of yours. The leaf is slowly lifted from your mouth, even if he’s still a few feet away.

 

Your Soul floats patiently, dancing round and round as a clock’s hands would spin.

 

“How do you know my name?! Who..who are you?!” You choke out, still struggling to pull your feet from their bindings. Your hands are still scrabbling at your neck, straining against the thick vine wrapped around there.

 

“Not important.” And it might be your imagination, but he looks sad. The thought is quickly swallowed up by fear when his bitter frown twists into the cruelest smile. “But let's test out that Perseverance of yours.”

 

You feel all the vines tighten in concert around you, more than before. They lift you high above the gray flowers dancing in the breeze, and you're sure you're going to die again...which really sucks, because you were starting to like this loop.

 

“Fight me.” the flower demands, but you don't know what to do. Your Soul just floats there, thudding uselessly as it follows you into the air.

 

 _“I don't know how!”_ You shout and your thoughts drift longingly back to the baseball bat still strapped to the back of your motorcycle.

 

“Useless. So much for that Soul of yours. It's with the wrong person entirely…” He hisses menacingly, and again you feel that disappointment directed at you. He's already lining up an attack, tiny seed like pellets that fly closer and closer to your Soul.

 

You close your eyes shut, bracing yourself for pain.

 

There's something you still have to do. You have to apologize to---. You have to end this nightmare. You have to help Sans find his brother and the ambassador. You have to get your goddam nursing degree.

 

Resolve strengthens your will, and your Soul seems to glow brighter. There's a silvery burst of light and a subtle shift. It pierces bright behind your closed eyes.

 

You accept.

 

There's that feeling of a skipped song in a disk and when you look again, the flower looks a bit winded. The pellets it had been aiming so precisely at you are nowhere to be found.

 

There's a sharp pain and you can't tell if it's somewhere in your chest or outside of you. But it travels down that invisible tether of yours and something wavers in your mind.

 

**6/10 HP**

 

You can't remember taking a hit, but apparently you did.

 

Your lovely, unwanted purple Soul still floats between you two, thudding and faltering every so often. It looks dimmer, the edges of it roughed by a recent injury.

 

You struggle again, suspended above the field of golden flowers, your sight wavers until it catches sight of blue. Fear has a visceral grip on every part of you. All you're capable of is waiting and watching. But you won't let it end here. You need to move forward.

 

In your mind’s eye, a series of actions are laid out for you...all options with different diverging paths. You choose the only one you trust.

 

You call for help.

 

“ _SANS!_ ” Desperation leaks into you voice, cracking the notes until it sounds like you are sobbing.

 

“ **bee?! bee, where are you?!”**

 

Relief floods you when you hear him answer. He's close, somewhere around the rock outcropping you went behind.

 

“SANS! Over here!”

 

**“i’m coming, kid! hold on!”**

 

He sounds frantic, that rolling baritone of his is less calm and more thunder than usual. There's the rustling of the grass and the howling of the wind as he tears through Space looking for you.

 

A brief tear in Space brings a spot of dark to the overwhelming gray of the Confrontation space.

 

And there he is. Eyes eerily void and mouth set into a wider grin than usual. The gaping maw of Space yawns behind him, and it is terrifying in its own emptiness. The inky blackness cuts into the gray and white. Colorless save for the blue fire that flares in Sans’ eye and licks up the side of his head.

 

You've never seen him like this. The closest was last night and even then, that had lasted less than a terrifying minute.

 

His eye shifts rapidly in its socket, taking in you wrapped up in vines, immobile. When he sees your attacker, his grin widens, the teeth set apart so that you can fully see that his canines are sharper than expected.

 

“ **l e t  h e r  g o.”**

 

Even you, the person he's rescuing, feel a frisson of deep fear. It rocks you to your very core, and something about the tear behind him is strange. There is something terrifying beyond it, things that are pale and huge and void.

 

“Oh look, it’s the smiley trash bag!” The flower spits out, his face contorting into something truly terrifying. But something in the way he wilts, petals dropping to shield him tells you that he is scared.

 

**“1…”**

 

Sans lifts up one bony index finger, the number grating in his throat like gravel under the wheel of your bike.

 

The vines tighten around your throat. You start to feel them press against your pharynx, the cartilage bending and making it hard to breathe. You still try and tear away at them, your dull nails doing nothing to scratch the thick surface.

 

Fear is real and your relief fades away with the sensation of clouds in your head.

 

Dimly, you can hear a high pitched keening, and the white things in the void come closer to escaping...but your sight is blurring as you pull at the vines.

 

“ **2.”**

 

Black has started edging into your sight, spotted and the gray and white have mercifully faded. Blurred gold flares likes stars underneath your tears and you still can't breathe.

 

 _“Sa..ans...s..orry.”_  You gasp out...guilt wracking you for putting him in such a vulnerable position. You can't believe that you're going to be dying at the hands (or leaves) of a golden flower, but there's hardly anything to be done now, is there?

 

(You don't see his desperation. The utter defeat that lines his eyes as you gasp out that stupid apology. Already an aching feeling of loss is humming through him, but you...you make him want to try anyway.)

 

**“3”**

 

_Make a wish...refuse your death._

 

No, because you've accepted that you're going to die...it's okay. Regrets...well, you have many. But everyone does. Catherine would be so mad. You didn't say good bye. But she's strong. Your patients...none of them would remember a nursing student anyway. Sans...You were only slowing him down.  You and your purple Soul. Your parents...they had someone else to make them proud. Someone amazing and spectacularly wonderful. And GB didn’t need someone like you in his life...someone who had taken away his skies.

 

So this...this is okay. Not great or amazing and you're still scared, but hey, what can you do?

 

And with that last depressing thought, you go limp.

 

There's a brief moment of tension and then you feel yourself falling through the dark, stars bright in your sight as you do.

 

You're only briefly aware when one of them flares a bright blue and catches you in a hard embrace. It calls your name, sad and lonely and you really have to wonder if stars can talk in the first place.

 

Still, you're infinitely more comfortable making wishes on stars than golden flowers, seeing as one of those flowers just killed you. And this blue star is calling your name, winking in the dimming light. Something about it stirs the most tender of feelings in your heart, something deeper than that thin thudding you're coming to dislike.

 

You reach for the brightness, smiling as you say-

 

_“Please be happy.”_

 

* * *

 

You don't know if you should be annoyed or relieved when you find yourself in a bed of golden flowers. Your eyes are still closed, but you can feel their thin petals crushed under you, filling the still air with that same cloying, bittersweet smell.

 

For a moment, you almost believe that things are okay, that maybe it was a bad dream or Sans managed to get to you in time. But then a familiar irritated static reverberates around you, and suddenly you are flooded with memories of a place almost forgotten.

 

When you open your eyes, there is that same shadowy specter from before...but this time the stars that usually swathe his face are gone.

 

His form is resolved into a long, lanky build, dressed in a dark shirt and pants underneath a pristine white lab coat. The edges of which flutter in the non-existent breeze.

 

He looms over you, slightly menacing against the backdrop of an infinite expanse of stars in a sky that's as void as Sans’ eyes are at times.

 

You lift yourself up onto your arms, feeling an achy soreness throughout your body.

 

He speaks then.

 

“If you were so intent on seeing me again, there are better ways.”

 

His voice is no longer hidden behind comforting bees. It's manifested into a smooth drawl, somewhat thinner than Sans’ lovely tone, but a little more restrained.

 

His skeletal face looks at you with the most judgemental gaze you've ever seen. The two cracks that extend over his eye and under his mouth even seem to be sharper with sarcasm. Still, his mouth quirks into a wry smile as he extends a long bony hand to you, offering help.

 

You take it. Your fingers are much smaller, threading through his long phalanx without hesitation.

 

And as he lifts you up, a name comes to your tongue before it's fully registered in your mind.

 

“Hello again, Gaster. I guess I died again.” You say, the words still odd in their reality. But you know them to be true.

 

He chuckles, his humor entirely of a grim calibre...but when you've slipped beyond Time and Space, there's so much more room for morbid humor. He steps away from you, placing his hands behind his back in a manner most proper.

 

He briefly glances at your chest, and you'd be offended if it weren't for the fact that your Soul is visible now, floating much closer to you than usual.

 

It's edges are still frayed, but it's color is much brighter than before. The shifting lavender hues swirl within, hypnotizing you. And for all of your disappointment, you have to grudgingly admit it's really pretty.

 

“Perseverance. Quite a nice Soul as well. Interesting.” He brings forth one hand to rest under his chin, contemplating things you're not sure of. “And yet you still haven't figured it out.”

 

You look confused...Gaster always spoke in half questions. Never straight forward, spending almost the entirety of your third loop with him had been frustrating.

 

“Figured out what? That my Soul isn't what I wanted it to be? That I'll keep making the same mistakes?!” You accuse, hands flying in front of you in your frustration.

 

“You are still learning, little one.” He soothes.

 

“I tried so hard, but I just made things so much worse for Sans. And now I'll either have to wait for another reset...but that wouldn't be fair to wish on anyone. So I'm either stuck here for eternity or _blah_...I don't even know what to do next. It's not fair.”

 

You finish your rant, breathing hard and wringing your hands in frustration. Your Soul thuds calmly now, at odds with the emotions roiling through you.

 

“Not fair, you say? What is your basis for comparison?”

 

Gaster gazes at you without pity, arching his brow and you feel a rush of shame...to be honest, your version of not fair pales in comparison to his dilemma….not existing sounds like a really crappy situation and sometimes you forget.

 

“Sorry...but I just…” you trail off, lost and feeling so very confused. You hug yourself, carefully avoiding hitting your Soul.

 

“You accepted that you were going to die.” He points to the purple heart, awe quite clear in his tone. “The tether is shorter. That is Time’s gift to you.”

 

“I still don't understand.” You say in frustration, rushing your hands through your hair. “Why can't I just give this stupid thing to someone who wants it?”

 

You wave vaguely to your Soul, still trying to make sense of it all.

 

A strange gray flush falls across Gaster’s face, and his dark eyes do that same odd averting thing from before. He sputters, trying to come up with an answer. His hands click clack against each other as he nervously fiddles.

 

“That is uh...a matter of...oh dear...this is hardly appropriate. We’ve been through this before.Some other skeleton...err...would be more suited to that...at least, he was in the other timelines.”

 

His words briefly register, building up in your mind to form the image of your traveling companion. Gaster notices your flushed cheeks and laughs again, nodding in satisfaction.

 

You're about to protest quite vehemently when your words are swallowed whole by the wind.

 

The flowers sway as a breeze picks up and there is an intensely loud howling. You look up and the sky has been torn in two, a gaping black slash growing wider and wider as it swallows up the stars.

 

Behind the wind, you can hear the static again and when you look at Gaster, his expression is melancholy.

 

“It seems your luck is complete, child.”

 

The silver stars have begun to swathe across his face, the dark of his clothes are blending and sinking into the white of his lab coat.

 

You reach for him, not wanting to be alone.

 

“What's going on?! GASTER?!”

 

“Do not be scared. The one with the most Determination has decided to pull back Time for you.”

 

You still don't understand, but you reach for the dissipating monster, running forward until your hand comes in contact with his shoulder.

 

The texture is indescribable, like cold water that burns with its frigid emptiness. He looks a little sad when your hand slips through him.

 

“Take care of yourself, ____. Because there are many people who truly care about you.”

 

And then the stars fully coalesce to sweep him away in particles of dust. You watch as they drift up into the growing black hole, the wind no longer deafening when you hear your name being called distantly...faintly...and through your tears you see a dancing blue star grow brighter and brighter in the sky, refusing to be swallowed up.

 

Your own Soul shines brighter in answer, and you go backwards to go forwards.

* * *

 

Summer sunshine wakes you as it drifts golden through the window of the motel room.

 

The feeling is depressingly familiar, and you know that if you look to your right, you'll see Sans’ bed is empty and the sheets crumpled into a ball in the center of the bed.

 

You can only lay there, tears falling down your cheeks as you feel at your neck desperately. The ghostly feeling of pressure still lingers, even if there's nothing constricting about your loose shirt.

 

“I guess I died again.” You whisper to the empty room, a feeling of failure sweeping through you. This was new. A reload in the middle of the year loop...you're so confused and lost.

 

But then again, that's how it always is, right?

 

You live and you learn. Seems like dying works in the same way.

 

\----

He stays in the middle of the field for a long time. The sun wheels high in the sky, making his fellow flowers glint a glorious gold.

 

He knows there's many of them. But they're not his to have. They belong to everyone else in the world. Wishes made in moments of Time. SAVE points...these are useless to him anyway.

 

And he had failed again. You had failed him. You had died, hadn't even tried to use whatever the hell Perseverance grants you. He had been expecting a grand defense. Maybe even an ability to manipulate Time.

 

But you still took the hit...still died under the pressure of his vines.

 

You forced him to reload a SAVE.

 

His expectations had been thoroughly dashed. Your Soul was fraying, weak in the face of your disbelief.

 

And yet…

 

He has hope for you yet. Even if he's reluctant, you're the only new deviation this time around and Flowey’s worked hard to put you in the right position.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OHHHH SHIIIT. OKAY, BEAUTIFUL TOP ARTWORK BY SINNABEE. (DJSHDJDS) TAKE THE SCENE AS YOU WILL.  
> BOTTOM IS A BAD SKETCH BY ME.YIKES. Readers looks are just how I pictured her. 
> 
> ALSO SINNABEE HAS UPDATED "WHAT DO LO MEIN YOU'VE NEVER HAD CHINESE FOOD?", AND that means there's a twist waiting. GO AHEAD AND CHECK IT OUT..
> 
> ALSO skainsmate has updated PATCHED and it is a glorious, painful chapter that needs to be READ. NOW.


	12. To Apparate From a Coffeeshop to Someone Kind of Like Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sans has every right to freak out and tries to pull the Break em, to Save em Trope...and in which the plot sort of thickens...about as thick as bargain brand ketchup. 
> 
> AS ALWAYS THANK YOU TO THE WONDERFULLY TALENTED SINNABEE FOR ALL THIS, AAAAAND A SPECIAL NOTE FOR THE SURPRISE AT THE END?? THIS MADNESS IS HERS. BUT IT HAS PLOT RELEVANCE
> 
> song rec for this chapter is brought to you by maybeawriter6. "Shatter Me" By Lindsey Stirling...it talks about clockwork, guys...guys...clockwork. it's so fitting....

Regret isn’t a new feeling for him. It’s an old unwelcome acquaintance, taking up residence in his Soul that comes knocking almost every day. But he’s grown used to it, letting it grow old and faded until it’s nothing but a nuisance...because the things he regrets are long past...time loops included.

 

Still, there will always be regrets. He will forever regret not eating Paps’ star-shaped pasta the day before he left to New Town. He will forever regret not apologizing right away, not telling Paps that he was just scared he didn’t need him anymore. He will forever regret only going back to Ebott for short holidays and making excuse after excuse to his brother. “i’m busy with an experiment.” “i’ve got a conference coming up.” 

 

These words had never been lies, but he went the extra effort to make them truths. He sought out more work in the lab until his hours were spent entirely at the university...all before the Resets.

 

Regrets are varied. They can cut as deep as the ones he has with his brother or be as distant and sympathetic as the regrets he feels when he reads the articles about the missing monsters. Children and adults, vanishing subtly through the loops. He figures it’s all connected, but how and why is elusive, and regrets are painful to think about for too long.

 

They're like weeds. If you tend to them, they will grow as effervescently as those damn golden flowers.

 

So he makes excuses. He can’t save everyone. He knows that, but maybe if he stops the loops, breaks the pattern...finds Frisk and Paps, it’ll stop the rest of this terrible mess. 

 

He never expected to have a new regret seared into his Soul. It burns. It seethes with fresh pain, pulsing deep within him and telling him to move.

 

He never expected to have you in his life...never expected to have someone like you fumble your way into his carefully planned out, looping existence...never expected to care for a human the way he does you.

 

You are an anomaly in your entirety, and his biggest regret in this moment is that he had left you alone.

 

It's horrible really, the way it feels like his Soul is unraveling, his magic suddenly beyond his careful control as it rips ragged holes through Space to find you. The stinging humming of it, sparking just beneath his bones.

 

He let's Space swallow him whole, barely keeping still and almost missing his destination because your voice keeps reverberating in his head.

 

The golden field of flowers looks innocently the same, but he can hear your distant calls..his name a desperate cry for help, ghostly and weak.

 

And that's when he feels it all. The shift in the air, the growing pressure of a Confrontation.

 

He digs deeper into the sensation until there’s something familiar in the entropy that surrounds him. He senses your Soul. Lovely and earnest.

 

**“hold on, kid. i’m coming!”**

 

And he finds you, wrapped up in a myriad of vines, green tendrils twisting around every part of you that is vulnerable. You hang in the air, struggling several feet above dancing golden flowers. 

 

He sees the fear in your face, the desperation as you seek him out.

 

The relief in your eyes when you do find him is immeasurable, and your Soul...your existence is pulsing weakly. The edges are blurred and still it beats, fighting in that clumsy way you do. 

 

It's injured. You're hurt.

 

He catches sight of your assailant and familiarity claws deep into his anger, flaring wildly as his magic lashes out. The tear behind him grows larger, the wind howling as he calls them.

 

Sharp keening fills the void, lacing through the howling wind with a chilling foreboding. The cold settles deep into him. They are coming.

 

But you are vulnerable. You are his only weakness in this moment, and you're being held up high as a bargaining chip. 

 

The damn flower knows this. It's obvious in the way he bobs up and down, that simpering smile still on his yellow face.

 

**“l e t  h e r  g o.”**

 

He feels his mouth part in fury, his voice rolling hard into a threatening tone. 

 

**“y o u  h a v e  u n t i l  t h e  c o u n t  o f  t h r e e.”**

 

**“1.”**

 

But Flowey’s always been a creepy little bastard and he only laughs. Sans is at a loss, but he pushes forward, because he can feel your reliance on him. You're still fighting on your own, clawing at the thick vines...but you need him.

 

He is needed.

 

A wave of bones rolls through the ground, tearing up the soil and sending golden petals into the air with that same cloying scent he's come to associate with you. 

 

Flowey pops down into the dirt, only to show up a few meters away, to the left.

 

And still you dangle above him, the golden light of the sun painting your panic in stark clarity.

 

So that's just enough...he doesn't think as the vines tighten hard around your throat. You hang above him, legs kicking feebly in a last attempt for air. It's all happening too fast.

 

He's panicking now, and his actions don't match up with his usual calm logic.

 

A volley of bones is met with a curtain of petals. He hisses a curse as you're moved in front of him. The coward is using you as a shield even as you suffocate. Your Soul is returning to your chest, weakly melting back into its home.

 

**“2.”**

 

The vines grow even tighter and thicker. There's a definite whistle in your breath now. He hears your wheezing, the air slowly hissing through your clenched teeth. His pupils narrow into pinpricks.

 

Anger lashes through him. It burns because he's losing you and he can't do much when you're being used as a shield.

 

The golden flowers sway mockingly, the confrontation leaching back into the color of reality.

 

And then something settles in that fearful expression of yours. Something terrible and sad and beautiful, in an eerie way. It was also heartbreaking to see. Especially now.

 

Acceptance.

 

“So..rry...Sa..ns.” You gasp out, looking at him with the most melancholy expression. Your eyes shine with that scintillating emotion and he sees how well you've tried to piece yourself back together.

 

Not very well.

 

(How true to form you are...apologizing even when you're in danger.)

 

They are here, hovering just at the edge where Space blurred into Time.

 

_ “ _ **_last chance, buddy. let her go._ ** _ ”  _  Sans says, quietly hushed because everything stands still. 

 

And two things happen.

 

He says “ **3”** and you fall limp, your neck jerking with a sickly  _ snap  _ forward. You hair falls to cover your face, and the rest of you hangs like dead weight.

 

He's distracted. He stares in outright horror for a fraction of a second, his eyes wide and the fire out for the moment.

 

And then your name is torn from his throat, his agony shaking the flowers down to their roots. 

 

Flowey seems to be debating all his life choices up to this point, because Sans’ eyes no longer have light. The weight of the world seems to have fallen over everything, pressing the flowers left standing flat to the ground and blue magic flares powerfully as the screeches of those menacing Things from behind the tear in Space grow louder.

 

With a movement of his hands, he directs them all at the only golden flower that still stands.

 

His eyes are as void as his regrets, swallowed whole by your silence.

 

“Hah...pathetic. She's so weak. Just like that simpering brother of yours…. It was all for nothing. ” Flowey pushes, slowly loosening his hold on you. He seems bitter, hopeless and angry about that...in fact, he sounds almost petulant, the way a child might when something didn't work the way they wanted it to. And maybe if Sans were in the right state of mind, he would ask what that meant. 

 

But you are deathly quiet, and Flowey has insulted the last person he should have.

 

San’s let’s go. Absolutely destroys any restraint he's ever had. He doesn't speak. He doesn't have to.

 

He merely sweeps a glowing hand outwards, the sharp tips of his fingers appearing ghastly in the blue light.

 

Bones rips through the soil again, coming in angry waves.

 

At the same time, the Gaster Blasters break through. Those reptilian skulls, large and menacing and thrumming with magical energy all aimed at a startled Flowey. Sans thinks there's something like regret in the bastard’s eyes as he looks at you, still dangling helplessly from unforgiving vines. Blue light streams prettily through the field, scorching a black path straight to where Flowey was.

 

But then the smoke clears and he's gone, escaped...and you are free, falling through the air.

 

Your form is broken, strangely pretty as you fall back to the earth.

 

He catches you. Without magic, he runs for the first time in a long time to catch your limp body in his arms. You land in his embrace with an audible thump, and he uses every last bit of magic he has to keep from jostling you. 

 

He leans your head against his shoulder. He's shaking and you're not moving at all.

 

His eye is still blazing, painting you in shades of blues and quick flashes of electric yellow.

 

He calls your name again.

 

Your eyes are glazed over. You don't respond.

 

“_____!” He calls again, and finally, the slightest bit of movement causes his breath to catch in his non-existent throat.

 

You only smile up at him, and he hears the barest of whispers come from your mouth, creaking as you struggle to bring air through your crushed trachea.

 

_ “Please be happy…” _

 

Then you accept. Your eyes are still half open, but the light has left them. They are flat, devoid of that swirling brightness that usually paints them with emotions.

 

And Sans doesn't think, doesn't care to close the gaping maw of Space behind him. The blasters return to their void, keening softly as they pass him by. He's kneeling in the still simmering remains of the flower field, golden petals raining down slowly on you and him.

 

The sun is lower in the sky and it's day time, but you are so cold. Your lips are blue, your face pale as he cradles your cheek with his hand.

 

He vaguely remembers your CPR lessons in the middle of his living room, half serious as you use his pillow to demonstrate.

 

_ “It's fine if you don't learn. I'll be with you. I'm almost a nurse. Trust me.” _

 

Liar. Liar. Liar. 

 

He wants to shout at you, tell you off for being so stupid.

 

“___...wake up. i don't know what to do...please.”

 

Your face blurs in his sight, your features distorted into a jaded image of stillness.

 

He clumsily looks for a pulse, settling his digits to the side of your bruised neck.  Still, there is no movement in your chest.

 

By now, he's laid you on the flowers, pressing against your chest to get you to just breathe. He follows that strange rhythm you taught him, pushing roughly against your sternum and nothing happens.

 

“how?” he asks you as he pushes down again and again. “how. can. i. be. happy.  **HOW?!”**

 

The tears plop down, translucent and blue and terribly beautiful against the bruises on your face.

 

He's stopped the chest compressions. There's nothing more he knows how to do. He regrets many things, including not learning how to fix a broken human.

 

The idea of help spreads out before him, more desperate and hazy as he realizes he can't just pick you up and shortcut to a hospital. 

 

But it's mechanical. He's powerless to his shock as he lifts you up, carefully settling your head against his shoulder and he begins the slow trek to the road...maybe someone...anyone can help.

 

You've tethered him to a bleak future. You and your purple Soul, but still he will keep on moving so long as it remains inside you.

 

But the world is cruel.

 

A sudden warmth envelops his hands, threading just underneath, and there's a purple brightness that flares through his bones. It's absolutely electrifying, the fading flare of a dying Soul.

 

The tears fall faster when he realizes it's your Soul that coats the both of you in this warmth. It manifests just above your chest. Weakly thudding with one last little earnest run. 

 

He merely holds you closer, basking in the gentle light as it frays...and then breaks away into silvery dust to float amongst the golden petals. He can't bring himself to touch it though, because he cares for you far too much to desecrate what is left of you. Cares much more than he realized. 

 

You are leaving him. Despite his efforts, your Soul soon disappears into the ether.

 

It just wasn't enough.

 

And his sobs devolve into relieved laughter when the world is pulled away from him, dissipating into that familiar darkness that tells him Time has been pulled backwards.

* * *

 

 

The shift is instant. 

 

One moment, Frisk is in that strange state between waking and sleeping. Their head is pillowed against the folds of Papyrus’ red scarf, the material of his flannel shirt feeling a little too hot under their cheek.

 

The bus is an old, rickety thing that sways with every bump in the un-maintained freeway. So it's with some effort that they manage to drift off into an uneasy rest, eyes half lidded as they watch the corn fields drift by lazily underneath the summer sun.

 

Papyrus’ whistling snores are somehow comforting, emanating from under the brim of his wide hat.

 

There's a sudden feeling of dread that settles into the pit of their stomach, their currant eyes widening as the sky is rent open and then they’re standing at a dinky little bus stop somewhere in the Midwest of the country.

 

The heat is dry and Papyrus is still speaking with that loud voice of his set free now that they are nowhere near civilization.

 

“-AND SO YOU SEE FRISK, THE RISKS OF GMO CORN VERSUS NORMAL CORN ARE FEW AND FAR BETWEEN. SCIENCE HAS ITS…Frisk?” Papyrus trails off into a worried inquiry, because the teenager is hugging themselves. 

 

Their fingers are harsh claws digging into the folds of their yellow cardigan, eyes wide and fearful as they turn their head this way and that.

 

“ _ Frisk _ ...this feels vaguely familiar.” Papyrus says carefully, setting a gentle gloved hand on his companion’s slim shoulder. His comment is meaningful and this time, Frisk knows that he's asking the right questions.

 

It's with all the fear and confusion of someone who's lost power that they answer. Their fingers are shaking as they begin to sign

 

**“Not me. Time, I did not move.”**

 

It is all Papyrus is able to catch before they launch themselves at him and he holds them close, his warm entreaties marked by trepidation.

 

“I believe you, Frisk!”  Papyrus whispers in that half shouting way of his. 

 

The human is so small and frail. So young and still carrying the weight of a world nearly splitting at the seams.

 

They need him.

 

He is needed...and Frisk has told him all they know. About the Resets, their fate at the end of the loops...things he's starting to recognize as more than dreams. Or nightmares.

 

Things that have happened and it's scary, because whatever may have happened in the Underground was no longer applicable here.

 

The world is so vast and it would keep on turning no matter how much or how little he knew.

 

So he hugs Frisk to himself and his comforting whispers are half for them and half for himself.

 

* * *

 

The coffee shop resolves itself into a reality sharp enough to cut. And he doesn't know why, but the tears sting at the corners of his eyes as he drops the tray of two mocha lattes he carries.

 

_ A Reload? How?  _

 

He briefly registers the splash, the piquant aroma wafting up to sink in the dead air of his chest, bringing to mind each and every memory of evenings spent with you at the Bean Hole.

 

The liquid burns slightly, running down his bony fingers in painful rivulets but he simply laughs as he uses those same fingers to cut into Space.

 

He misses the startled looks of the barista and customers. Several gasps and a few screams fill the small establishment as the wind howls and the heaviness of gravity settles deep into the atmosphere.

 

But it doesn't matter.

 

The sun shines at the end of that gaping maw. He’s too busy eagerly looking at the image of you, head tilted towards the morning sun. The simple decor of the motel room embraces you in a scene of wonderful mundanity. 

 

You stare out at the street, eyes distant and hair still messily falling out of the style you had pulled it back into. 

 

His emotions are roiling. Fear and confusion and relief and absolute happiness that you are  _ alive.  _

 

His magic thrums just beneath his bones, fluttering like a bird come to roost. And he realizes as he appears just behind you that he's come back to something feeling vaguely like home.

 

He hasn't lost you. He hasn’t lost the only other person who remembers. (Who he’s grown to care about.)

 

Space knits itself back behind him, silencing the din of the coffee shop. 

 

Images blur past him, hanging in the depth of dark among the stars...but he pays them no mind.

 

It's all too fast anyways, because he's directly in the room, hand still reaching forward and trembling.

 

He's close enough now to see the bunmarred skin of your neck. The smooth curve of your cheek, softened by the sunbeams you seem to want to disappear into.

 

He says your name.

 

He sounds like he's choking. It’s like those damn golden flowers have taken root in his mouth, seizing everything into golden hope as the syllables come breathlessly.

 

You stiffen visibly, turning on the balls of your feet until you see him standing a few feet away.

 

Your expression is for once unreadable as it quickly dissolves into an amalgamation of things too complex to decipher.

 

The color of your eyes is bright, scintillating beautifully as the tears roll down. 

 

Your cheeks are flushed and maybe his are too. He's not sure who moves first, but all he knows is that soon you're in his embrace.

 

Your head is tenderly tucked underneath his mandible, your fingers clutching onto his jacket with all that's left in you. He cradles you close, the sharp tips of his fingers threading through your mussed hair. There is no distance now...no hesitation because he'd lost and found you.

 

You're trembling, your frame small against his sturdy bones and something settles painfully within him. Something that makes his very Soul ache, straining in his chest to your thin thudding. It unfurls the tiniest bit, and he's still not sure what is entirely but it's going to make him say things he doesn't want to say.

 

He slides his hands gently down to your shoulders, pushes you away the slightest bit to look down at you with wavering light in his eyes.

 

You're still crying, but you have the strength to ask-

 

“S..Sans?”

 

His smile is hard, the words sifting through grit teeth as he fights against almost every part of him.

 

“____...you should go home.” 

 

You give him a faint smile, disbelief making your eyes shine bright. Your tears have barely stopped and you bark a humorless laugh.

 

“Ha ha...very funny, Sans.” You sniffle, fingers curling tighter on his jacket. 

 

He doesn't answer, merely keeps on looking at you with that focused gaze of his, teeth no longer set apart in that way they had earlier. They are a seamless cover...a mask. 

 

You realize with a pang that he's being serious.

 

You step away, hands clenching into fists at your side as an unbelievable wave of pain falls over you...far more hurt than you'd expected.

 

You don't break. It's too late for that.

 

“ _ Why?”  _ You ask. “What brought this on?”

 

Sans merely keeps on looking at you, and even if there's a thousand ways to explain himself to you.  _ I can't put you in danger like that. I don't want to, but it's for your own good. I can't lose you...not again. _

 

He picks the worst way.

 

“can't be slowed down by someone who doesn't even accept her own Soul as reality.” He says quietly, eyes shifting because he can't take the hurt that breaks across your furrowed brow. “i’m better off alone, kid.”

 

Unexpectedly… you still don't break. You merely look at him, long and hard. Your mouth sets in a grimace as you nod your head. Just like back then...back at the hospital...you accept his words, take it all in as if you feel you deserve it.

 

And then...you unfurl.

 

Your hands loosen at you sides, and you run them through your hair, frustration and anger clear as anything on your face. He thinks he's made a mistake, when you close the distance between you two and grab onto the front of his jacket. You jerk him down so hard, he thinks he can hear his bones rattling with the force.

 

Your neck is craned slightly upwards, the tendons straining delicately with your agitation.

 

He's inches from your nose. Your eyes boring deep into his, your face red. A few tears still cling to your lashes and he smells your scent of golden flowers and antiseptic and motor oil and his Soul beats double time.

 

He thinks you are absolutely beautiful when you bloom.

 

Then you shout.

 

“ _ I'VE HAD IT!  _ I've had it with this - this up and down! You want to be alone…? Well screw you, that didn't work so nicely the past ten years, right?! So just... **_Stop.”_ **

 

**_“_ ** bu-” 

 

“Don't! Don't call me buddy or kid or any of that dumb crap. Listen to me...as your partner, as an adult.” You jostle him a little more, and he's too surprised to do much but wait and listen. “I am so tired...I…I just...”

 

Your tirade begins to die out, passion slowly leaching out of your words like tea from a tilted cup.

  
  


Realization makes you bitter, a remembrance of what exactly he can't do with you makes you lift one hand from his sweater and place it on the side of his face. 

 

He doesn't move, but he stops breathing.

 

Your fingers are gentle, spanning across the curve of his zygomatic arch, blue warmth threading underneath them. 

 

“I need you. And you might not need me, but I could make you stay...all I'd have to do is keep holding you...and you would stay.”

 

Something about it doesn't sit well with you. The thought alone was enough to make every part of you rebel in screaming denial. That would never be fair. He has every right to leave you behind. To not be tethered to a purple Soul and a human who can barely accept her circumstance. You know how to let go best of all.

 

“But...I care about your stupid face too much.” You whisper brokenly, more epiphanies breaking across your thoughts until all you can do is look at this person in front of you. “That would be...horrible.”

 

He's lovely in a way, a construct of magical warmth and danger all encased in creamy ivory. He's patient and awkward and strange and funny and a good friend, but he's not yours to have...not in the way you thought you could claim to have him.

 

It seems even Time loops aren't enough of a shared experience to tie you to him.

 

And finally, you let him go. You pull away. Everything in you wilts, you hug yourself and sigh.

 

“I know. I know I’m weak. I died...but I'm here. Whoever Reset...whatever it was...doesn't matter. This isn't the first time I've died...so why does it matter? You already warned me about the danger...this wasn't your fault. So why does it matter?”

 

You place a hand over your chest, in defiance, in comfort, in dismay...he’s not sure...he's still reeling from your words. This isn't the first time you died. You openly admitted to caring about him... and he has so many questions and for once, his fear of your unknown is enough to stun him into explanation. 

 

“bee...that's not...that's not the danger i meant. every loop, there's a few people lost. innocent monsters and humans. the danger was from whatever humans are behind that. i've had run-ins...but i never expected  _ that  _ ...thing, to be a threat.”

 

He looks at you dead on.

 

“i lost you the way i lose my brother and frisk. its like the world’s crappiest yoyo. You die. They die. And then you're back. And at least with them, I know it's frisk doing all the resets...but this…”

 

He gestures between to the space between the two of you distractedly. You feel your breath catch, the trust you'd worked so hard to build slowly fading because of something you had no clue of.

 

“That's not fair. I...I didn't reset.” You say hoarsely, agitated because just seconds before he'd been hugging you like you were everything he needed. Your head hurts with the swiftness of the change. 

 

“i know, but you have to admit...it's really not a pretty picture it's painting kid.” He says despondently, making the strangest expression of half regret and half wariness.

 

“I didn't do anything  _ but  _ die, Sans...and I get it. I get how bad it looks, but I promise I'm...I can't do anything. I'm just me.”His eyes bore into your own, pleading for a truth you might not be able to convince him of. He's wary and apologetic of the accusation, but you know it wasn't you.

 

He seems to shrink a bit into his jacket. He looks so tired and so hurt...but if you're interpreting his words right, he's been through this too. He loses them every loop. And he's died and been brought back by the whim of someone with ungodly amounts of Determination. No wonder he's suspicious.

 

But no matter what he thinks or what he believes, it wasn't you that had pulled back Time. Perseverance is ineffectual and useless for all but remembering...at least Patience controls Space.

 

You have to explain that to him. Tell him you're nothing but you, a person with a purple Soul and no idea what's she's doing.

 

He startles when you make a step towards him.

 

Your hand is raised, but you freeze when you notice his reaction.

 

Sans is unsure of you.

 

The way you had so carefully touched him, subtly letting him know you could block him from ever using shortcuts. Only to undo it all in the same breath. The last human who remembered dying multiple times had saved him and killed him countless times. He knows you're not like that, but... He looks at you, pain and confusion etched onto his face.

 

His mouth parts into that strange set of teeth, dangerous and eerily appropriate.

 

“Sans...I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” You tell him, softly and gently. Hand still on your Soul, heart beating fast and eyes earnest. “But whatever this part of me is...it's still here. Powerless and trying really hard to understand. I'm still me. If you...if you really want to go without me, then go.”

 

It seems appropriate. The right thing to say, because he breathes, all the tension seeping out of his stance to let him crumble forward until his head drops forward until it falls into his hands with a tired  _ clack. _

 

He shakes and you wonder if he's laughing or crying...you wouldn't blame him for either one honestly.

 

“you died...more than once apparently...and tibia honest, I don't know what more to say.” He speaks haltingly, words slightly muffled as he says them into his hands. He lifts his head to look at you again, his eyes are wide, darker shades of ivory ringing them beneath so that he has the haggard look of sleepless nights.

 

You rush forward and embrace him, tell him that it's okay. He’s still quiet, hands coming down to hold you closer. The continuation of a reunion most-needed. You're face is flushed and you fist your hands into the fluff of his hood, still enjoying his scent of winter and ketchup and petrichor.

 

“you're here.” He says, the movement reverberating through you as his mandible shifts against the top of your head. “you're still you. you’re still alive.”

 

You take a moment, relishing the warmth and proximity of him. He seems to need to hear your voice however, when you feel him grip tighter.

 

You're about to say yes, when your stomach decides to answer for you. A thin growling stretches across the quiet, curling humorously around the atmosphere and it does the trick.

 

You look around a bit embarrassed, pulling away to explain.

 

“I'm guessing there is no coffee this time around.” You offer, a sheepish smile gracing your face.

 

“eh...sorry. had a latte on my mind.”

 

You both break into broken laughter, something entirely strange and pretty and sad in the wake of everything.

 

You peer up at him through your scrunched up eyes, smile digging into your cheeks. 

 

And he's the same, his eye sockets narrowed by a true smile. There are tears are the corners of his eyes, and somehow that's even more painful. His cheeks are that nice cyan color. His mouth is still parted, but the smile is relaxed and unbelievably sweet as his rolling baritone seeps over in ebbing waves of laughter.

 

It settles deep into your chest, sending warmth shooting through you to coil into your bones. Like tendrils of a lovely little flower. The petals brush against your lips, pushing you to sigh in defeat.

 

You know you're helplessly in trouble now...you  _ care  _ about Sans. You'd openly admitted it...and yet you get the feeling this caring isn't the kind of thing you thought you meant. You cared too much, more than a fire forged friend...and maybe he did make your heart race and your cheeks flush and the pit of your stomach churn until you were all parts nervous and some part happy.

 

So that care is something eerily similar to _like_ and it's underscored by an immense feeling of appreciation and friendship. It hits you with none too soft a revelation.

 

You might  _ like like Sans. _

 

You decide to file away these things for a later time when you're not breaking apart, teetering on the edge between sanity and not.

 

The Soul that thuds within you seems to agree, and it slows down for once, comforting despite your distaste for it.

 

It's just enough for you to be okay...just barely.

\----

 

You two decide to leave town quickly after that. Sans was reluctant to remain, considering the scene he'd caused back at the coffee shop.

 

You end up just a few miles inland at a dingy motel. 

 

You knock out almost as soon as you flop onto the strangely moving water beds, your light breaths muffled into your pillow.

 

He finds it difficult to sleep, mostly because he's scared that he'll wake up back in his apartment and you will be gone.

 

Dead or not, he doesn't really care to indulge his fears because his mind is on the cusp of another break down.

 

So even if he still feels some measure of happiness at seeing you here, there's suspicion and trepidation in him that he unwillingly waters.

 

A Reload of a Save in the middle of the loop is unheard of in this set of loops. This is the first time it's ever happened and he's wondering if your Perseverance has anything to do with it.

 

Whether knowingly or not, you had affected the time line. That's not even mentioning the weird skipping moments earlier, the ones that felt like missing a part of a familiar song.

 

Small and seemingly ineffectual, they scared him more than anything.

 

He looks at your sleeping face, your expression relaxes and the lines of your mouth and around your eyes smooth without worry or sadness for once.

 

He thinks that maybe once upon a timeline, you could have been happy. Maybe not unbroken, but happy. 

 

And sleep continues to evade him as the questions pile up, that same budding emotion from earlier unfurling further as he drinks in the sight of you.

 

It's something altogether odd and pleasant, prompting him to quietly make his way to your bedside and tenderly sweep a few strands of hair away from your face.

 

The tips of his fingers just barely trace the bridge of your nose before he realizes what he's doing and pulls away, warmth flooding his cheeks.

 

You don't move. You're eerily still, and if it hadn't been for the thin rising of your chest underneath the blanket, you would've looked as lifeless as when you had died in his arms.

 

And that scares him. He settles things within himself and comes up with the flimsiest justification he's ever thought of.

 

“this is payback, buddy.” He tells you quietly and his smile curls ever so softly as he places a hand on the same place you'd done so earlier, in the heat of your anger and desperation. His hand curls large over the curve of your cheek, and he feels the tiny pulses of your heartbeat just beneath your skin. It's weird and cool and he's fascinated and relieved by it.

 

Your heart beats on. You are warm and alive.

 

And he's fascinated by you. By every single struggling part of you.

 

The moment is broken when you scream and claw at your neck, gasping for air.

 

He rushes forward, hands moving to your shoulders to restrain you calmly. He is thankful that he was awake to keep watch over you.

 

Dying always ended up giving him nightmares, even if he seemed like he was fine the day after. This is familiar territory and he is kindly Patient as he wakes you and anchors you to a life just barely worth living.

 

He leans his head against yours, finding solace in the fact that you need him as your screams fade to whimpers and you cry.

 

You need him. He needs you.

 

It's just enough.

* * *

 

 

Maybe saying you were  _ okay _ was too premature. Your meter for what's okay and what's not is skewed and you figure it's been like that for a long time. Two days later, and you're still tired. The past nights had been sleepless, punctuated by nightmares of choking on golden flowers and waking up with your hands clawing at your throat because you felt like you couldn't breathe.

 

You're pretty sure Sans is suffering from sleeplessness too, and you don't know if it's because he's always there when you wake up to hold you while you sob it out or if he's suffering from nightmares too.

 

Two days later, and Sans can be described with two words...taciturn and tactile. You can't blame him for either one. It's been a hard start for the both of you and there's so many things to be accounted for.

 

So you two ride for as long as you can, watching vaguely as the landscape shifts from rolling green hills to flat desert landscape and the sun becomes a thing of golden hatred.

 

Your jacket is stowed away in your backpack. Sans’ stays on his frame, and he's pressed up close to you, hands on your shoulders again and fingers digging almost a little too hard into your thin gray shirt.

 

It's hot and you feel sweaty, despite the rushing wind that's cool against your arms, but you don't begrudge him the contact at all.

 

But his position does nothing to help your newly discovered  _ feelings. (Ugh) _

 

You two end up at another quaint little diner just off the the exit ramp after another hour of riding.

 

(You've both agreed on skipping the golden flowers with an unspoken awkwardness.)

 

It's fairly empty, which isn't unexpected considering it's part of a rest stop and the nearest city is still three hours away.

 

It overlooks the freeway and is settled against a backdrop of reddish rock, a low range of hills that will eventually resolve into a rusty canyon miles behind the desert.

 

But you're hungry and you can hear the loud humming of an air conditioner working overtime, so you don't think much of it when you grab Sans’ hand and pull him eagerly to the paradise in the middle of nowhere.

 

You sit at the bar this time, twirling giddily on a stool next to Sans. The color scheme is bright green and with 1950’s memorabilia decorating the off white walls. 

 

It's kind of silly, but nearly dying and your epiphany regarding how you feel towards Sans have made you appreciate the small things a bit more.

 

You are playful, still hesitant and still a mess. You've decided to take things in stride, and you have lots of questions, but there's time for that now.

 

Your waiter is a kind, dark-haired guy probably about your age named Jeffrey. He looks a bit nervous as he greets the two of you, speaking at a volume that's just a little louder than normal...just the tiniest bit, and you notice that his eyes keep shifting to your lips as you answer back with a polite greeting.

 

When it's time to place your order, his brown eyes blink a bit at Sans, looking a little dismayed as he takes in the shape of your friend’s mouth, namely the lack of lips.

 

“Ah...I'm so sorry. I'm uh...just hold on.”

 

Jeffrey looks around for bit, rolling on the balls of his feet as he searches for one of his co-workers to assist him. Unfortunately the only other waiter is currently engaged with a family of eight, her blond ponytail bobbing with every nod of her head.

 

You catch sight of an inconspicuous wire placed behind his ear.

 

Sans seems to come to the same conclusion only a little after you do, but you're quick to act...experience with patients has long ingrained this habit into you.

 

Without thinking you stand up and your movement catches his attention.

 

You raise your hands to a level just below your face so he can clearly see your hands. You bend the large knuckles of your right hand slightly and slide your fingers smoothly over your left palm twice.

 

_ “Excuse me.” _

 

The surprised grin that splits his face is marvelous and you thank the heavens that you'd used at least part of the loops to learn ASL.

 

He immediately tucks his notepad into the pocket of his yellow apron and lifts his hands, enthusiastically signing back. He's much faster than you're able to form the signs, but given that you'd only be practicing for about a year, you don't feel too much of a blow to your confidence.

 

You catch his initial sign of a raised fist, moving up and down at the wrist in a semblance of a nodding head.

 

_ “Yes.” _

 

And then this is subsequently followed by a topic of lips and a comment on how he reads them. You're still trying to get used to the grammar of the language, but you are amazed when you turn to see Sans waiting patiently for Jeffrey to finish his explanation before he lifts his hands and begins signing too.

 

Once everything is settled and Jeffrey has eagerly taken your orders and made small talk over things like the ungodly heat wave outside, he leaves, a little bit of a skip to his step.

 

You feel happy, but it's quickly overridden by the surprise at Sans’ easy fluency with the language.

 

“That was amazing.” You tell him.

 

He merely winks at you, giving you a pair of finger guns that he promptly blows out.

 

“i have a ton of talents-”

 

“Don't you dare.”

 

“a skeleton.” 

 

You groan unenthusiastically, letting your head fall to the counter top of the bar. You get a few funny looks, but you're too tired to care.

 

“I hate you so much right now...even if that was a pleasant surprise. Where'd you learn to sign anyhow?”

 

Sans shrugs, smiling blithely.

 

“we all took some lessons when we came to the surface. frisk doesn't talk...much. so we uh...yeah, just learned.”

 

You nod your head, humming in thought. Thinking about it thoroughly, you don't remember Frisk ever talking in speeches or even the few times you met them in person. They weren't shy by any stretch of the imagination, but you'd always tried to distance yourself from the politically sensitive side of things and hanging out with an ambassador would have been the opposite of that.

 

“That's really sweet. You all care about each other so much...I uh...I'm a little jealous.” You say wistfully, painful memories surging through you. Your regrets are many, but this is the one that's shaped your future into what you are now.

 

“jealous? your family...do they…”

 

You rush to clarify the impending misunderstanding.

 

“Oh god no! It's nothing bad. They're honestly really good people...apart from the whole Justice envy thing I've got going on, they're great...it's just, after I screwed up...I haven't really gone home.”

 

You look away for a bit, desolation marring your bright eyes as you stare out at the wavering landscape.

 

“do you want to talk about it?” He says, curiosity edging his voice, xbut you're thankful for the concern and Patience that corrals it. 

 

“Maybe another day...right now...I just want to eat.”

 

And your luck might be changing, because Jeffrey arrives with both your orders, setting down the plates carefully.

 

You're all too happy with the large basket of fries and the whipped cream topped milkshake placed in front of you.

 

You look up to sign your thanks when you notice Jeffrey giving Sans a look filled deep with pity.

 

Sans’ smile is frozen across his face as he gazes at probably the most unappealing hamburger you've seen in a while.

 

The bun makes a moist tearing sound when Sans’ pokes at it despondently.

 

Jeffrey gives a quick explanation about how the chef always makes the burgers like this and she doesn't take any suggestions kindly. He offers hesitantly to take it back, but his fingers are shaking and you have a feeling a confrontation with the chef is the last thing Jeffrey wants today.

 

Sans immediately plasters the fakest, silliest smile you've seen yet. His teeth are seamless and broad as he places his right hand over his left palm and then vice versa.  _ Hamburger. _ He tacks on a slower sign for  _ great _ .

 

What a beautiful, kind lie. Poor, brave Sans.

 

Jeffrey's relief is intensely palpable as his lovely smile breaks across his face again. You and Sans both sign a thanks and he leaves you two to your meal.

 

You give a sympathetic little hum and scoot your heaping plate of fries closer to you.

 

Sans stares in absolute fascination when you proceed to dip one of the delicious smelling fries into your drink.

 

“It's good. Try it.” You offer around your full mouth, sliding the plate in his direction. 

 

He chances a glance at his depressingly soggy hamburger and then speedily takes up your offer, edging a fry slowly into your shake, as if he is conducting some strange food experiment.

 

You swallow and wait with anticipation for his reaction, tugging at the hem of your shirt to distract yourself. When you hear a humming sound come from his mouth, you’re pleased to note the pleasant surprise that crosses his face.

 

He chews...yeah, apparently he chews....slowly. 

 

“See? It's good right?” You ask, a large smile crossing your face. 

 

“it’s no grillby’s...but i’m glad i fried it..” He grins smugly and moves a bit when you aim one of the French fries at him.

 

“Nowhere is safe from your humor.” You grumble, looking in awe as he opens his mouth wide and shifts the slightest bit to catch the still warm food you sent his way. When his teeth close and separate again, it’s nowhere to be seen. It’s so convenient, you want to cry a little. And his remark brings a fond smile to your face, happy memories of days spent with people you loved playing through.

 

“Yeah, Grillby’s is pretty great. This is alright. Although I'm surprised you're not downing ketchup right now.”

 

Sans looks as if he's about to ask you something, but decides against it. He follows your conversation instead.

 

“knew i was missing something.” Sans says as he looks around the room for his missing condiment.

 

You grab the bottle of ketchup to the left of you and slide it his way with an audible  _ swish. _

 

He deftly catches it and proceeds to turn it around, only to make a delighted face as he reads the label.

 

“What’s got you smiling so big? I knew you liked ketchup, but I didn't think you loved it that much.” You joke, curiosity making you lean on your stool and read the label he's staring intently at.

 

“Eww...it's not Heinz.”

 

“it's bargain brand.” He says matter-of-factly, looking at you as if you'd just insulted his first born son. “tastes even better than heinz.”

 

“Whatever floats your boat. Ketchup is ketchup, I guess. It's just enou-”

  
  


“it's more than enough.” He corrects you quickly and then pulls your plate of fries towards him again. He gives you one pleading look, and it's only then that your newfound crush hits you because he looks so adorably earnest. The lights in his eyes are soft and large.

 

You nod amusedly, your face flushed as you turn to take another sip of your milkshake. Sans gives you a quick thanks and you flinch when half your fries are drenched in bargain brand ketchup with a resounding splat.

 

While he busies himself with your formerly crispy fries, you begin the hard stuff.

 

“We need to play that ketchup game again.” 

 

He stops fiddling with the fries, wiping his fingers neatly on a nearby napkin. He swallows what he has in his mouth, and then looks at you with trepidation.

 

He gives you his answer when he caps the ketchup bottle, flips it on its side and rolls it towards you.

 

“Hey...why do you get to ask first?” You complain, still stopping the rolling bottle with a gentle hand.

 

He arches his brow, and gives you the most shit-eating grin you've seen in a while.

 

“because we're both partners and adults. no kids here, right?”

 

His tone is light as he says this, but there's an underlying darkness to his words that you maybe once would have mistaken for anger. But you know him better than that.

 

He's hurt.

 

Your eyes widen, not having realized just how much your words may have affected him. It seemed like you were the one always crying and you were the one who felt things the most...it never occurred to you that Sans  _ could  _ even be hurt by any words of yours.

 

And you remember what you told him in the heat of your anger. Pain riddles your chest and you look at him apologetically.

 

“I didn't...I'm sorry. I said some really crappy stuff...I'm really-”

 

He doesn't let you finish, because soon he's leaning across the space between you, face close enough that you can see every little divot in his mellow expression and every little hue of white in his eyes.

 

The fur of his hood tickles your collarbone a bit.

 

You are mesmerized, red crawling up your neck to settle on your cheeks. 

 

“still apologizing?”

 

His words come out through parted teeth instead of his earlier seamless smile. Something about it sparks heat in you, and you shift your gaze away from him.

 

A loud  _ clack _ brings your attention back, and he's set the ketchup bottle right side up between you two, his phalanges eerily sharp and long against the glass and red.

 

Your heart beats fast. Your Soul beats faster.

 

“don't apologize for things you meant. accept them.” His voice is canted low, amusement and mocking twisted deep into the rich tones. Then he asks his first question.

 

“how did you die the first time around?”

 

Perhaps it's the strangeness of the heat in your face or the proximity of his eyes like stars in a void sky...perhaps it's your defiance of his teasing that prompts you to wrap your hands over his on the bottle and keep them there.

 

His bone is warm underneath your palms, but still, you simply say-

 

“My third loop, first day. I woke up about twenty minutes too late for the clockwork to be accurate. So I took a detour and ended up at the same intersection during a red light about a few seconds before anything happened... I didn't...didn't think.”

 

You close your eyes, pulling at the vague images that are like mist. It's often said that you can't recall pain accurately, but there are phantom pangs that run down the back of your neck and at the base of your head and on your ribs as you remember.

 

You open your eyes, your surroundings slightly hazy and distant.

 

“I let my motorcycle fall in the middle of the lane. Ran across the street and pushed the kid out of the way before the car hit him...I took his place.”

 

“do you remember anything after?...i mean, there was no Reload that loop. i lived it...just like always.”

 

His question prompts a new image. 

 

_ Golden flowers that glint like stars in the sky, prompting you to make a wish. Golden flowers stark against a tall form of scintillating ebony and a sad expression on a skeletal face. _

 

But it's a strange thing that lasts the span of a millisecond. It's sad and lonely and comforting, but you dismiss it as a dream.

 

“No. I don't.” You answer honestly, shaking your head ruefully. “So sorry, can't exactly confirm the existence of a deity or deities… I can't even tell you if there's an afterlife in the first place.”

 

Sans gives a disbelieving chuckle, his amusement warm against your neck as he's still close to you. His hands strain under yours on the bottle, and you feel that odd static feeling crawling over your fingers. It's warm and the intent in it is comfort.

 

You give him a half smile in thanks.

 

The thought of not remembering is eerily comforting. There's a chance that you wouldn't fall into non-existence if you died again...after all, you'd been through it twice and you'd come out relatively the same, still an emotional wreck of a person with a barely there optimism. A sudden visceral fear grips you, because it's more the thought of what you missed than what you went through that hounds you.

 

You've always pushed it to the back of your frazzled thoughts, never indulging the fear because there was no way you could have asked anyone. You'd been the only one to be aware of Time.

 

But now, you're not alone and the question is natural.

 

“Do you think anyone noticed that I was gone? Did anyone remember me?” Your voice is oddly steady, but there's heartbreak laced through you. 

 

The questions echo your final thoughts before dying the second time, air whistling through your crushed trachea as you made excuses for every person who would lose you.

 

It was easier to make it seem like it didn't matter when you were dying. Now that you were alive again, facing it all was more harrowing than you had believed.

 

He seems to mull it over, taking a moment before he speaks.

 

“i...when i died...back in the first time loops in the underground, i would always wake up in my bed, hearing paps’ voice shouting at me to stop being lazy. there was uh...heh…” He looks at you a bit frantically, his hands tensing below yours and you begin to push against them, guiding the ketchup bottle down.

 

“It's okay. You don't have to talk about it.” 

 

He shakes his head, and then rights it, blue magic surrounding the bottle until it's solidly up again underneath both your hands.

 

“just uh...hold on.” He takes a deep breath, the air oddly cool through his nasal concha as it fans against the skin of your neck. 

 

You've almost stopped realizing how close he is, but the sensation brings you back. You only grit your teeth and swiftly send any thoughts of how cute his concentration face is to the garbage chute.

 

You're almost okay again, when he continues.

 

“when i died...there was usually no one left to mourn me...i mighta been the last one...that or asgore was...so i can't say much in that regard.”

 

You've never been good at fixing your expressions. It was only with lots of practice and seven years of looping that you'd been able to get it down in a hospital setting. You could always focus on the medicine part more than the emotional part, until you needed to be sufficiently sympathetic for grieving and/or worried patients and family.

 

So it's not a surprise when you feel your smile devolve into a gaping open-mouthed stare of disbelief.

 

“Sans...I...that's terrible...and yet you're still here and living...you're amazing. I can barely handle dying twice and yet...I just...I'm…”

 

“you're comparing scars again, bee.” He chides quietly, and then proceeds to shift his gaze to the din in the kitchen, the slight sizzling of food drowning out your panic and his. He seems to think about something, turning the thought over and over in his head until he's left with an expression of bitter realization.

 

But when he turns back to look at you, there's a slight smile on his face.

 

“on my first three loops, i remember that corner where the kid died always had a few flowers. they were always gold. on my fourth loop, there were none because nothing happened.”

 

He pauses for bit, and gives you a look filled with such depth and fondness, you recoil the slightest bit because it makes you hurt in a way you hadn't been expecting. He raises one brow at you, waiting for the implications of what he's just said to settle into you.

 

Since the beginning...since the beginning, you'd been setting down the flowers. Even when you weren't aware of the loops, you were setting the flowers.

 

You're not sure how to feel about that, but he seems to. And he gives you the most melancholy grin, his hands slipping from underneath only to place them over yours and lace his phalanx through your fingers.

 

You're not sure he understands the implications of this and again, there's a gap in monster culture and human cultural norms regarding close physical contact, but you can't really be bothered to say something because he's looking at you as if you placed the stars in the sky.

 

“my fifth loop, there were flowers of all kinds. some orange, some purple, cards and letters and stuff i didn't really pay attention to at the time. the kid was safe. i never bothered to wonder why if the pattern kept holding up.”

 

He looks almost ashamed as he says this, slipping his hands from yours slowly. You let him go, still reeling with the revelation and the tears you thought had been long dried out fall down. You were remembered...people remembered.

 

You can't speak. The words are caught in your throat like lively little birds nesting warmly.

 

“you have to take care of yourself, because there's a lot of people that really care about you...me included.”

 

He sheepishly smiles at you as you gaze at him, and before you can devolve into a mess of sobbing again, he pulls a few napkins from the dispenser hastily and hands them to you.

 

You accept them gratefully, dabbing at the corners of your eyes. You're glad you're mostly okay by the time Jeffrey stops by again.

 

Unprompted...but it seems planned...he plops a plate of lovingly iced vanilla cake in between the two of you. Sans gives the young man a pair of finger guns that are hesitantly returned, and you smile a little because you've been in the poor guy’s position.

 

Jeffrey seems to glance at you sympathetically and you know it's because it looks like you've just been crying. You give him a faint smile and he nods his head knowingly before sweeping off to deal with another set of customers.

 

“got ya some vanilla cake, honeybee.” Sans announces amusingly, his grin curling deeper when he sees your grimace at the nickname. 

 

You regret telling him not to call you kid or bud. You have a feeling that this is going to be something held over your head until you fix this. There isn't much that would drive Sans away from teasing you, so with a modicum of pride, you decide to roll with it.

 

You give a warbling laugh, eagerly taking your fork and swiping a piece of the large slice before Sans. He quickly grabs a bit right after you.

 

“Thank you,  _ Sugar. _ ” You punctuate this with a sarcastic wink, and playfully bring the cake into your mouth as Sans nearly chokes on his own.

 

You pound lightly on the back of his jacket, but you don't think it'll help much when food mostly just disappears when he eats.

 

Magic...so convenient except when it's not.

 

Sans still coughs a little and you're seriously wondering if you'll have to perform the Heimlich maneuver on a skeleton.

 

You're not even sure why the numbskull is so surprised, but his cyan cheeks are cute and you can't be bothered when the cake is divine.

 

“pet names are game?” He asks after a ludicrously long sip of bargain brand ketchup. He looks at you dubiously when you tilt your hand side to side in the air.

 

“Kind of. I think it's clearly a matter of who can make the other most uncomfortable.” You grin at him. “And you're going to regret this, Bone Boy.”

 

His smile turns sharp, brows drifting low over his sockets and you feel that stupid flip flop feeling in your gut, like there's a whole bunch of butterflies pollinating your golden hope.

 

“bring it on,  _ sweetheart _ .” 

 

His tone rolls low and you suppress a shudder. But let it be known that you are not one to give up easily.

 

“Oh! My precious honey-soaked stud muffin, did you forget that I am a person of Perseverance?” You say, all the while wincing internally at the saccharine tone your voice takes. Yikes. Maybe you should drive all the way back to Sunnyside Diner and ask Lauren for some tips...she really had that whole routine down.

 

Sans bursts into laughter, practically wheezing as he sees the resemblance in your technique. It might be exaggerated, but the way your batting your eyelashes is ludicrously familiar and you're glad you got him to laugh again.

 

“god. honey soaked? a person of perseverance. gosh, kid. you got me beat.”

 

The familiar endearment slips past his guard and he blinks a little as he realizes it.

 

He's about to apologize when you flick some icing from the tip of your fork and it lands with a cheerful splat on the upper corner of his forehead.

 

“Still apologizing Sans? Well that's fine, since I probably am a kid compared to your old bones.” You sing song, handing him a napkin which he takes mutely, still looking at you with a wary gaze. “How old are you anyway?”

 

“with loops or without?” He sighs, setting his palm flat against the counter to click impatiently.

 

Your subtle maneuver works. He seems to realize that you're circumventing his own pride and his own hurt to apologize in a quieter way and to give him permission to call you as he pleases again. His smile softens as he comes to terms with it, rueful that you with your softness and stumbling have managed to trick him into accepting your apology with ease.

 

“Doesn't matter. I don't count them, but you seem to.”

 

He looks a little melancholy at that, because you still have trouble accepting many things. Though your Perseverance comment earlier makes him wonder if there's progress on that front at least.

 

“alright. no loops, err, eesh...twenty six...ish?”

 

“Ish?” 

 

He looks a little bit odd as he tries to clarify. You don't catch much beyond some vague explanation about Time moving strangely in the Underground and how monsters tend to age differently to humans.

 

“bottom line, monster kids stay kids longer. ergo, less monsters...it's like the way humans spend a lot of time raising a few kids, but rabbits can have multiple litters a year.” He finishes, still sipping at his ketchup.

 

You vaguely remember something about the concept in one of your prerequisite biology classes. Evolutionary and ecological biology had never been your favorite, but it makes sense in that context.

 

“An evolutionary adaptation to fit a niche in a habitat.” You clarify, slowly, and he looks at you appreciatively.

 

“so you are a scientist. good to know.” 

 

Again, you tilt your hand back and forth in the air.

 

“Kind of. Not really. Medicine relies on science, yeah and I've dabbled in some monster  community health research, but I've never published anything or even had my own project.” 

 

He stares at you contemplatively as he places his chin in the palm of his hand.

 

You feel your face flush. He's still kind of close, and you're a little embarrassed. 

 

“Wh-aat?” 

 

He smiles.

 

“eclectic.”

 

That wasn't what you were expecting at all.

 

“Eclectic?”

 

“yep. you're eclectic. can't really peg you and i figure it's because you're a pretty interesting person.” He explains. “it's nice to see that.”

 

You think over his statement for a moment, taking another bite of cake to give you more time to stall.

 

“I don't think...I mean I don't do much and if anything it’s because of the loops.” You disparage. “It's more for my sanity than anything. And yet no matter what I learn, I'm still stuck with Perseverance.”

 

“you've got bargain brand Determination.”

 

“Excuse me?” You squeal out, unsure what to think of this whole mess.

 

He gives you a contemplative look before sliding the ketchup bottle in between you two.

 

“i have a theory. it might be entirely bogus. but it's the first interesting observation I've been able to make. hardly quantifiable though.”

 

You tilt your head, curious and still very confused. His tone is even and there's no joke to be found.

 

“If you have a large enough sample size, you can always test it out. What is it?”

 

“bargain brand determination...or maybe more like all the soul traits work on time and space in different ways unique to them.”

 

You blink in consternation and interest. You're not sure where this is going, but you warily gesture for him to continue.

 

“see, it's like this. if patience works with space and determination pulls back time, that leaves the other traits what exactly?”

 

He looks at you pointedly.

 

“Uh...I'm not entirely sure where this is going, but I don't know. Those two seem like the biggest players in this game and Perseverance is a synonym of Determination...at least in layman’s terms.”

 

You shrug, still a little annoyed at being termed a watered-down version of Determination, but you suppose it makes sense. Whatever you had was just enough to let you remember the loops, but not enough to change much about them. An endless fountain of frustration and clockwork.

 

“exactly. so i’m thinking that's why you remember. you might not pull time...that's dt. dt virtually refuses it's reality and forcibly moves time. perseverance might be doing something like that, only less powerful.”

 

You think two things. First, is that  _ shit _ , you're a diluted Heinz ketchup. Second is that it's not you that is, but that weird magical organ called a Soul that beats thinly just above your heart.

 

It helps a little, not much, because you're still rife with disappointment.

 

“Great. Here I am stuck with bargain brand Determination...god. if Determination refuses, then where does that leave me?” You drop your fork onto your plate to pinch the bridge of your nose. “I'm stuck with a trait that probably does fudge - balls, looks at the situation and does something like politely decline...only to get yanked along anyway.” 

 

You pound your fist on the counter top with a soft fleshy  _ thump.  _ You look childishly petulant as your cheeks puff out in consternation.

 

Sans starts laughing hard. His hands are on his oddly filled out torso, and he's clutching his sides like he can't get any air in.

 

It's certainly pleasant, but the fact that your words had been entirely serious and steeped in agitation made you feel a bit hurt. You hadn't been lying.

 

“sorry...bud.” He manages to get out in between guffaws and wheezing. He wipes a few tears from his eyes, his smile relaxed. “but  _ politely decline. _ ..that was perfect. that wasn't what it felt like when I tried to shortcut with you holding on, but sure.”

 

You're eyes widen in panic, a flurry of apologies already let loose from your tongue. You hadn't known he felt anything. You remember the blinding white pain in your chest and the blurred images, but nothing else. You hadn't realized.

 

“calm down bee. it's fine. none of us could have known about it. it wasn’t anything as gentle as  _ politely decline _ , but the fact that i can still use blue magic on you makes me wonder…” He trails off, placing his chin on his hand again as his thoughts grow distant. 

 

You're not sure where his mind has gone, but a glance at the clock on the wall next to a signed picture of Elvis makes you realize you've been here for a good two hours.

 

You panic a little, because there's no constraint of time while you're here with him. You're so used to clockwork and scheduling, that every summer you're left in this haze of confusion that literally drives you to leave the continent for a few months.

 

But you're still here....and somehow two hours spent in his company makes you feel secure. Safe. You're not alone and it's more than enough to let you settle into a strange comfort.

 

You're a little sad when Sans announces that it's time to go. Long diner conversations seem to be a thing now, and you resolve to keep the dialogue going for as long as Sans isn't taciturn.

 

You both say goodbye to Jeffrey and give him a hearty tip. 

 

And as you ride away from the diner and speed past a flat valley filled with sparse cacti, you can't help but lean back a little into Sans’ hold on your shoulders and anchor yourself to something good.

 

It doesn't escape your notice that he leans in closer too.

* * *

 

 

That night, Jeffrey Santana returns home from a long shift at the diner.

 

He's in a better mood than usual because he'd met a genuinely kind couple with the strangest dynamic of teasing and affection he'd ever witnessed. So while a bit busy, it had been interesting to say the least.

 

Honestly, everyone else seemed super intrigued by an inter-species couple, and while not completely a rare occurrence, it was highly uncommon.As much as he'd like to say he believes in the good of humanity, the first few months after monsters came to the Surface were demonstrative of extremes. Some good. Some bad. Some neutral.

 

All in all, his fascination with Snazzy and Bee was hinged primarily on their conversation. Something strange about Time and Souls? At least according to what he could read from Bee’s lips.

 

Regardless, someone had snapped a picture of the two and his Co-worker had sent him the link to an obscure little blog hidden in the recesses of a popular blogging website. He inputs [http://spill-the-skele-beans.tumblr.com/](url)

 

It already has several posts and a few hundred likes scattered here and there. 

 

He reads the blog description at the top of the page, just under the header image of a few golden flowers dancing in the breeze.

 

_ This blog is an amalgamation of weird Time and Space theories that have very little basis in physics, a mod with a lot of time on her hands, and a detailing of encounters with Snazzy the Skeleton and his companion, Bee the Human. _

 

Jeffrey is surprised to scroll down and see some discrete pictures of the couple he'd seen at the restaurant. A few were blurred and a few were quite clear, but most were taken on the sly.

 

Another blogger named  _ skeletonsinner6969  _ had submitted a number of posts to this blog, only to be followed by a heated discussion of reblogs and replies that argued whether the two were an item and what they could possibly be doing on a road trip. 

 

_ spill-the-skele-beans:  _

_ “@skeletonsinner6969 in response to your ask regarding the relationship status of Snazzy, and if he and Bee the Human are dating; no one knows for sure if they’re a couple, because it doesn't seem like they've been on the road long and conflicting reports have been submitted.” _

 

_ skeletonsinner6969: _

_ “well okay, whatever. I know they aren't a couple, and if they aren't a couple, why are they traveling together? it’s not like they're related or anything” _

 

_ dumbledork573: _

_ “@skeletonsinner6969 you don't know that. it doesn't have to be a blood relation, especially with monsters. more often you see family of choice. and honestly, we can't tell from any of these pictures!!!! they could be family, or really close friends, OR lovers! the mod said that so far it seems like they might be searching for something? but it's also kinda ridiculous to take a long road trip on a motorcycle, isn't it? I dunno. whatever the case is, I wish them luck! maybe they'll pass through again on their way back?” _

 

_ miraculous-ladyboytoy: _

_ “Dude they are TOTALLY dating! I work at a motel, and they stopped in, and OMG? They share one room! So dating. There is NO DOUBT. OMG what if they're on their honeymoon???” _

 

_ skeletonsinner6969: _

_ “THERE IS NO WAY!!! he told me at the diner I work at that he wasn’t interested in a romantic relationship right NOW! there’s no way they're dating!!!” _

 

_ miraculous-ladyboytoy: _

_ “@skeletonsinner6969 DID YOU ASK HIM OUT!?!?!?!?” _

 

Jeffrey finds himself intrigued, but decides that's probably enough for one night. He bookmarks the blog and prepares for bed.

 

The next morning he’ll have to wake up for a very early shift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lots of touching this chapter...although it's not entirely meant to be shippy...but i guess almost dying does have it's effects right? 
> 
> also///
> 
> WELP. yeah. SINNABEE ACTUALLY DID THIS. SHE TOOK THE TIME AND WENT AND MADE A BLOG AND SEVERAL BLOGS AND NOW THERE'S THIS META MESS WE'VE GOT GOING ON.
> 
> Actually though, there'll be clues to in story stuff, so yEP. THANK YOU AGAIN TO SINNABEE FOR THE WONDERFUL HELP WITH ALL THIS MESSY STUFF.
> 
> LINK
> 
> spill-the-skele-beans.tumblr.com


	13. To Learn How to Love Like You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we take a walk down memory lane.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SURPRISE! Here's the LATEST AND GREATEST, the moment you've all been waiting for!!! THE NEXT CHAPTER. DUN DUN DUN.
> 
> Sinnabee here guys! Gigi has really and truly outdone herself! This is a little break from Snazzy and Bee, but in return you all get to meet someone that we have been VERY EXCITED FOR YOU TO MEET. Not to mention all the rest of this chapter? It's a doozy, folks! (In a good way!...Mostly.) Also shoutout to GIGI FOR BEING SO DARNED GREAT ALL THE TIME? LIKE OMG. Please please PLEASE enjoy the chapter guys! :D

Your mother has always needed something to fight for. 

 

And in all honesty, it was really amazing. A Harvard Law School graduate with a slew of won court cases under her belt, she had swiftly made a name for herself as a defender of the disenfranchised and an advocate for all sorts of progressive movements.

 

You are exactly four years old and two months when she takes you to your first rally. You can barely comprehend what the crowd is shouting, but you eagerly hold the small sign someone...you can't quite remember who...had placed into your stubby hands. The fight that you feel in you is borrowed from the crowd around you, it seeps into your tiny frame, curling upwards into your throat until you are shouting.

 

You catch a rare glimpse of pride in your mother’s eyes as she gives you a brief glance. And it's just enough to goad you into waving that sign as vigorously as you can. Still there's a loneliness that leaves you just a little winded as she strides away from you, entrusting you to your father’s kind embrace.

 

You watch your mother’s back grow smaller and smaller as she steps toe to toe with a police officer in full armor. She is inches away from the clear plastic shield he holds against her. Her back is taut with her passion, but there's something off about the picture.

 

Your parents are big. To you, they'd always been big and at four years old, they're the type of bigness you associate with safety and stability and everything correct.

 

But your mother looks small as she shouts the same chant and your eyes grow wide as you see her for what she is. A fighter. Someone who parries with words instead of swords to win her battles.

 

When you're asked later that week at school what you want to be when you grow up, you smile and say an avocado, just like your mother. Your teacher laughs. The rest of your daycare class gives you looks ranging from impressed to downright confused.

 

(You will later learn that your mother is an advocate. It's okay. You've never liked avocados anyway.)

\----

 

You've always been a dabbler.

 

You dip your toe into many puddles, different activities and hobbies leading you to know a little of everything. Occasionally, you'd find something you enjoyed enough to fully wade into, but it was a rare occurrence. 

 

You are eight when you decide to wade into softball.

 

Your father is the one to show up at all of your games...your mother comes a few times, but her smile is distracted as she glances down at her phone.

 

You strike out.

 

She doesn't notice. And you can't quite decide if you're upset she wasn’t looking or happy that she didn't see you fail.

\---

 

You are nine when you decide to start playing the guitar.

 

Your father is the one who sits in the front row. Your mother had another cause to fight for.

 

(She knows how to ACT...unlike you.)

 

Your voice cracks a little as you look at her empty chair…your father has that same apologetic smile. He's always told you to be patient with her. She carries the weight of the world on her shoulders.

 

So you keep playing, notes strumming from beneath your trembling fingers as you let the last line slip quietly from your mouth.

 

The applause is polite and genuine when you finish your piece.

 

The glow of the evening is dimmed when you and your father have to go to the local police station and sign your mother’s release papers.

 

Still, she looks happy. Her eyes are bright and her hands animated as she tells your father about what they'd managed to do.

 

She's beautiful and bright, even if her hair is hanging lank and messy around her thin face. Even if her shirt is smudged and she's got a misdemeanor on her record, she'd been heard.

 

So you simply stay quiet and watch, stubbornly clinging onto something golden and bright.

 

It's a few weeks later that a law is passed that furthers a progressive cause you're entirely sure you would support if you knew all the details.

 

As it is, your mother is happy and she sits you down in the living room at breakfast so you can give her an encore of your performance.

 

There's a muted kind of pride in her eyes, but it makes her so much gentler than when she's either rallying in her jeans or looking at case files in her pants suits.

 

She's comfortable in her gray pajama pants, and you settle yourself across from her on the loveseat and heft the guitar into the right position.

 

“___, play me your song.” she says gently.

 

And you do.

 

She is your mother. You love her. And she forgets sometimes, but you know she loves you when she claps along as you strum the notes and sing your song.

\---

 

You are twelve when you fully decide to be a lawyer, just like your mother.

 

You give up softball and guitar to make more time for things that do count. You join the junior debate team in your middle school. You enter essay writing contests and spin arguments on things you just barely understand.

 

You win awards and place them on her dresser...only to have them gather dust until you remind her of your accomplishments.

 

She looks at you with a dim kind of affection. Something that has become practiced and detached.

 

(You know she loves you, but it's getting harder for her to see you.)

 

You're not the smartest kid in middle school. It takes you effort to remember things and apply them. But you try really hard...even if your grade point average is good enough for your teachers, it's not enough to get back that gleam of pride you had once upon a time seen in your mother's eyes.

 

You know she loves you. She always has...it's just that sometimes she forgets many things when there's something out of balance. You're not sure if what's out of balance is the world or herself.

 

Still, she fights. And you go along with her, drifting at the back of the crowd like a ghostly specter. Someone who mouths the chants and believes in the cause, but doesn't believe in their own power to make much of a difference.

 

But you try and it's still not enough.

 

Your father tells you to be patient. But there's something inherent in you that is neither patient or brave or kind. It simply watches and struggles to make sense of a world that will keep on turning no matter how much you try.

\---

 

You are thirteen when the world breaks.

 

Mt. Ebbott had always been rumored to be cursed. The craggy edges of the looming mountain were deceptively softened by the lush forest and fields of lovely golden flowers growing on its slopes.

 

And yet, there was always a pervasive aura of harrowing mystery around it. 

 

_ If you go, you'll never be seen again. _

 

_ It’s true. My aunt’s friend’s sister’s boyfriend disappeared when he went hiking there. They couldn't even find his shotgun. _

 

_ It's haunted. _

 

_ They say there are monsters there...it's true. _

 

You were never inclined to believe rumors. And your curiosity was always well managed, pruned back to something that neither prodded or poked at the slightest provocation.

 

So you found out with most of the rest of the world just how true those rumors were in the summer before your first year of high school.

 

\---

The morning is mostly uneventful...save for a tiny earthquake that had rocked the large city and the surrounding suburbs...which was a common enough event for you to duck under your dining table automatically and then step out nonchalantly as soon as it was over.

 

(And yet something thuds within you, telling you to  _ look, look, look.) _

 

You head to the kitchen afterwards to start your breakfast.

 

The television drones in the background. You like to leave it on when you're home alone. It makes the house feel fuller. Summer tends to bring with it a tepid kind of loneliness. Your mother is back at work in her law firm and your father is managing the small pharmacy he owns in the center of bustling Ebott Town.

 

So you settle onto the nice couch, taking advantage of your freedom to pull up your bare feet onto the cushions.

 

Your bare legs stick to the brown leather where your cotton blue sleep shorts don't cover. 

 

You're never quite sure what catches your attention on the screen. But for the longest time after, you'll swear it was the flash of something bright blue in the corner of the image...and when you finally look you can feel the air leave your lungs.

Your mug of chamomile tea falls to the polished wood of the living room floor with a heavy thud.

 

Your thoughts leak out like the spilled tea, pooling into a corner of your mind that had been unoccupied since you'd stopped believing in fairytales.

 

The breaking news alert is red and heavy against a backdrop of a group of...and you swear to god you're not insane...monsters.

 

You can't quite make out their forms beyond the surrounding soldiers, but the flash of blue you thought you'd seen was nowhere to be found and you stay spell-bound as you watch the live coverage.

 

And no matter how detached you are in outside affairs, even your muted curiosity finds itself piqued.

 

Your fascination is distant however...in the same way you can watch coverage of a natural disaster or of a national emergency.

 

It's not happening to you. You can feel sympathy or fear or trepidation...but you've long learned that carrying the weight of the world is something you're incapable of. There's nothing much you can do regardless.

 

You're not your mother, after all.

 

You should have known she'd find a fight somewhere in all of this debacle.

\----

 

Integration had been quick, but not seamless. It had taken all of one month to determine that monsters were not hostile…not by any means. Essentially, the last few weeks of your summer vacation were spent on a needle point, waiting with baited breath to see just how this development was going to pan out.

 

There were still many things to be worked out...like laws regarding magic and basic human rights.

 

Well, maybe more like basic sentient being rights. Efforts were underway to settle things by a coalition of monsters and humans who had taken to each other like birds to the sky. Clumsily at first, and then soaring through open air.

 

So the thing is, your mother is at the forefront of these efforts. She drowns herself in the matter, taking on multiple cases defending and arguing the civil rights of monsters. She pours over case files on weekday evenings, sticky notes peppering the dining table as she mutters incoherent observations to herself.

 

Your father makes dinner for the first month straight...you take over after he nearly burns down the kitchen making spaghetti of all things.

 

And weekends aren't free by any means.

 

You don't go to protests anymore. You'd stopped attending a year before monsters were even a thing. Mostly because you didn't want a criminal record before you'd even turned eighteen.

 

Instead you spend your Saturdays on the living room floor, using your mediocre drawing skills and your above-average wit to come up with incredibly catchy slogans like  _ We are NOT the Soul inheritors of this earth.  _ and  _ The world could be magical if you'd just accept our neighbors. _

 

(You lied. Your wit is probably below average. Your sense of subtlety even more so.)

 

It's summer and the heat is barely bearable. You brush some of your hair over your shoulder, trying to expose the part of your neck not swamped by a ratty green shirt.

 

You huff a bit in frustration, the head of the rabbit monster you are drawing has come out lopsided.

 

Your father looks on approvingly from his slouch on the couch, his soft face filled with gentle amusement as you quickly erase a few letters spelling out a dubious sentiment when you notice he's looking.

 

_ F  YOU BIGOTS  _

 

_ “ _ I know they’re bigoted and narrow minded, but ___, you gotta be patient with them. I don't think waving that around, as nice as your handwriting is, would help out the cause much.” He chides, but his smile is broad and you grudgingly admit he has a point.

 

“I know, Dad...but they really do...suck.” You amend, pouting slightly as you lean forward to vigorously keep erasing.

 

He laughs heavily at your rueful expression.

 

Your father has always been understanding. Maybe too understanding, but he is the one that keeps your mother grounded when her lofty ideals threaten to carry her away on a zephyr of justice.

 

And you're simply the one that watches ineffectually, still entirely unsure of what you're meant to be doing.

 

You're still just as unsure when your mother steps in through the front door. 

 

She's dressed in those same worn jeans, her long hair is messily swept up into a bun, a few strands float around her pretty face. But it's her eyes that seem to catch everyone's attention. They are bright and piercing, passion scintillating deep in that gaze of hers. And it seems as she sweeps easily into the house that the sunlight chases after her, golden light dancing in through the open front door.

 

She gives you and your father a lovely smile. It's your only warning before she reaches behind her and pulls in probably the tenth monster you've ever seen in real life and the first you have ever met in person.

 

(You'd spent your summer in the house...you're a recluse by nature.)

 

Your mother looks at you and your father pointedly, wordlessly admonishing you both for what you assume looks like rude staring...which at least on your part, is purely awe-struck admiration.

 

The bee monster is lovely by almost every standard you could possibly measure her against. 

 

You say almost because you know there are some humans who aren't particularly fond of bugs. On your part, there is some discomfort, but it's never been something to make you run screaming in the opposite direction.

 

But you're fairly sure this person is pretty with her large, black eyes that shine with the most loving, friendly gaze you could have imagined. Her antennae are a scintillating black as well, curled delicately high over her yellow head.

 

She seems to already know your father as she greets him by name. You feel a little out of the loop when she finally turns to you.

 

“_____, this is my good friend Ambrosia Honey.” Your mother says with that same pride. And you see with the fondness in her tone that this fight for monster rights has become inextricably personal for her.

 

Ambrosia waves at you with one thin hand. The other is being pulled by your mother's enthusiastic grip and the next set of her dark hands are clasped politely in front of her, resting against the folds of her green floral dress.

 

“Hello. Pardon for the intrusion. It's a pleasure to meet you both.”

 

You gather your jaw off of the carpet and quickly wave on back.

 

Your mother gives you a sharp look and you immediately scramble onto your bare feet, feeling under dressed in your sleep shorts as you teeter forward to shake one of Ambrosia’s hands.

 

She laughs warmly at your confusion when you pause and wonder which hand you’re supposed to shake.

 

She takes the initiative and pulls you into a four armed embrace. 

 

You stiffen, unsure of what to do as you redden and wave your hands at your side.

 

“I...I'm sorry. I'm not sure where I'm supposed to put my arms. Would it  _ bee  _ okay if I just stood here. It really is nice to meet you.” You say off the cuff, your mind still buzzing with punny statements.

 

Mortification sweeps over you as you realize what you've done. But the retribution never comes.

 

Ambrosia takes it all in stride.

 

“Well, there's no need to create such a buzz, little one. You're fine as you are.”

 

Her laughter edges into her eyes from what you can see, revealing tiny fangs and it's only then you notice the iridescent wings that flit ever so subtly against her back, trailing along her black and yellow thorax.

 

She tightens her embrace.

 

“You are absolutely adorable. Your mother never mentioned how sweet you were.” She gushes. 

 

You find your head pressed against the fur that rings her neck, and it's so downy and soft that you find yourself relaxing despite the heat of summer. You return the embrace awkwardly, patting at her thin elbows.

 

There's something altogether simply pleasant and filled with love in her interactions, even if you're still reeling with the newness of it all.

 

You don't know her, but you find yourself willingly giving your name into her fur.

 

“Hello. My name is ____.” You finally say.

 

She laughs with that sweet voice of hers and you no longer wonder how strange it is that your mother has come to befriend this person.

 

You never expected any of it, but if meeting people like her was a part of it, then you think it's worth it to make it personal.

 

It might be just enough to change.

\------

 

Meeting Ambrosia Honey was just the start.

 

Who followed was her husband and her son.

 

Mr. Honey was just as warm and just as effusive as his wife. Your spine still creaks from the bone crushing hug you'd received as soon as you'd said what a pleasure it was to meet him.

 

Both the Honeys are outgoing and playful, never taking offense to your silly puns.

 

Now their son...saying he was shy would have been an understatement.

 

You stare down at the little monster hiding behind his mother's long cream skirt. You can just catch sight of his thin antennae poking up from neatly cut holes in a red baseball cap. They wave in the air to catch as much information as they can without him having to directly face you.

 

Mrs. Honey, as you had insisted on calling her, was entirely amused by your awkward attempts to coax him out.

 

“Now, now dear. Won't you come out to say hello to a new friend?” She tries to help kindly.

 

You can hear a soft n _ uh uh _ muffled into her skirt.

 

You try again.

 

“Do you want candy, buddy?” You offer awkwardly, tugging at the hem of your purple cardigan.

 

You're not surprised at the silence that greets you.You wince a little, thinking of how creepy you're starting to sound. All you needed now was a white van. Still, something in you wants to try again.

 

You weren't necessarily great with kids, but you had enough understanding to wait them out or make them respond to you.

 

It just depended on their personality. Grillbee was no exception.

 

(Yes, Grillbee. Named slightly tongue in cheek after his never-been-seen godfather and proprietor of the restaurant with the same name.)

 

You quickly put together stories that Mrs. Honey had told you about her son. Instances of little pride and things that made him excitable. Your thoughts work to build up a solution. 

 

You settle on a course of action and cup your cheeks in mock adoration.

 

“Oh gosh! Mrs. Honey!? Your son is an adorable little baby bee boy! He's so tiny and cute.”

 

You can see Mrs. Honey stifling her laughter with her first pair of hands. The other set is being zealously held onto by Grillbee behind her.

 

“Oh yes. He's such a sweet little baby bee boy.” She croons, and that's enough to get him out from behind her.

 

And it's so worth it.

 

He toddles forward as fast as he can, barely balancing on his thin legs.

 

He's really the cutest thing. His yellow cheeks are round, puffed up and flushed orange in indignation. He's standing at his full height...which isn't much considering his head only comes up to barely above your knee.

 

He's fisted his bottom set of hands in his striped green shirt. The other pair is waving angrily in the air as his little lisp falls and rises into a litany of rounded notes.

 

“I’m not a babaeboy. I'm a big boy! I can run really fatht! I'm a big boy! Mama...I'm a big boy, righ?”

 

He looks slightly mollified when his mother assures him that yes, he is a big boy, beyond her giggles.

 

You decide to push a little further.

 

“Mmm...I don't know. You're really small. You look like a baby bee to me.” You say.

 

His little wings are hardly bigger than the span of your hands, and still they buzz powerfully in his agitation. He looks at you with what he thinks is a threatening gaze. Large black eyes gleam in earnestness, and then he marches up to you with the most determined expression.

 

He points to you with one hand decisively.

 

“No...You're a babaebee.” He says with utmost seriousness and you find yourself absolutely lost in laughter. 

 

His hurt expression makes you breathe out and you quickly try and fix it. Something in you physically aches to see him hurt and you recall just how quickly you came to love the Honeys, and it seems their son would be no exception.

 

You smile beyond your laughter.

 

“Y-yeah, Grillbee. I'm a baby bee.”

 

And that seems to be enough, because the next moment he's fluttered up into your arms, and you're cradling him close like you've known him forever.

 

He settles his head against your shoulder, his voluminous ruff of fur tickling your collar bone.

 

You're done for. Gone. Absolute putty in this little kid’s four hands.

 

And yet, it doesn't bother you as much as you thought it would that you're getting involved. But the funny thing about monsters, you're quickly learning, is that even if they barely know you, they love you so easily.

 

It's something to be admired.

 

He pulls back a bit, large eyes swimming with awe and adoration that you're pretty sure you don't deserve in the slightest. But it's a thing that's seemed settled because he beams at you with his gap toothed grin.

 

“Hii Bee. My name ith GB.” He says proudly, and you can't help but glance a bit confused at Mrs. Honey.

 

She laughs.

 

“We call him GB for short. Usually not to confuse him with Grillby Sr.”

 

Grillbee, GB rather, decides in that moment to explore your face with his antennae.

 

You discreetly shake your head when Mrs. Honey opens her mouth to scold him for his lack of decorum. It feels a little odd, but he's a child and you understand the need to be tactile.

 

You've always been tactile, so you hold him close and stay still.

 

When he's done, he sniffs a little and comes to probably the best conclusion he could have.

 

All four of his arms wrap around your left shoulder as best as they can, and he nuzzles the brim of his cap against your neck.

 

“Lofe you Bee.” He mumbles sleepily.

 

And you find it utterly true when you say-

 

“Love you too, GB. Nice to meet you.” 

 

You want to laugh. It's all a little backwards and yet...it is what it is.

 

The tears prick at your eyes and you wish you knew what made him think you were someone worth loving just like that…because for all the oddity, you find yourself believing his childish statement.

 

You see Mrs. Honey’s adoring gaze as she claps quietly in glee. Mr. Honey and your dad peer in from the kitchen door, large smiles on both their faces.

 

Your mother has that quiet pride you'd been looking for all along, and it's directed at you for once.

 

Something within you shifts to completeness and a thin thudding rests just below your heartbeat, unnoticeable and persevering.

\----

 

They fall into your life, just as easily as flowers grow on the mountain. Their kindness and love spread deep into your heart, easily reaching the wellspring of affection you guard carefully.

 

The Honeys are, pardon the pun, sweet.

 

And you take up the cause in your own fierce way. You run a small blog, spread the word using social media to form a group of like minded online friends.

 

You feel good. And then, you don't.

 

Your efforts are never enough. It hits you in one all-encompassing wave of dread when you look at your mother standing proud and tall in front of the Queen of Monsters.

 

The monster is kind. Her eyes are hesitant and a bit amused as she asks your mother one more time.

 

“Are you sure this is what you want?” 

 

The Queen’s voice is as soft and plush as her creamy fur, but her muzzle is quirked into a sharp smile.

 

Your mother proves to the motley crowd of humans and monsters just how much she trusts her friends.

 

She nods a bit excitedly, that fierce grin of hers nearly searing in its eagerness and curiosity.

 

There's a heavy sensation, a vague pop that emanates from the center of the circle where your mother and Queen Toriel face each other.

 

And then light fills the clearing in the park, caressing every crevice and brightening up every awed expression as your mother’s golden Justice seeps slow and confident through the air. Tendrils of shimmering gold dust weave their way into the strands of your hair and you confirm what you've known all along.

 

Your mother’s always needed something to fight for.

 

And you can only hope your Soul is just as golden and just as fair as hers is. You'll change to make it so.

\---

You love them all. You know you do.

 

It's not enough to keep you strong though. Not when your name is known in school and your mother becomes a public enough figure, lumped in with the monsters. 

 

And that's when all the teasing starts. You try and keep a low profile. You have a few friends and it's only a couple of idiots with bigotry in their blood...but it still bothers you.

 

You've never been one to get involved.

 

So you shout back that your real name is ___ and not Bee Girl whenever they try something stupid.

 

But you've never been strong. Never been a fighter.

 

When someone starts the brilliant trend of buzzing in your direction, you deal with it. Suck it up because according to your mother, the monsters have to deal with far worse.

 

You've even taken to wearing so much yellow, a silent protest and pride draped on your hunched frame.

 

You have to be the perfect ally. There are people you love who can't shop in the same store as you, and it'll be worth it in the end.

 

So it's why you can silently endure the aching of your ribs as you curl up in bed. Ribs will heal...but dust is blown away in the wind and you'd rather hurt than ever have any of them fade away into the breeze.

 

But you should have known you were too weak to fight.

\----

 

Bee is the funnest human he's ever met. 

 

She never complains when he asks lots of questions and always let's him ride around on her shoulders.

 

He still thinks it's a little weird how she kind of gets smaller when there's other humans around. Like when she takes him to the park to play. 

 

There are some other humans her age that seem to know her.

 

They even call her  _ Bee _ like he does. But it’s only when they’re around that she slips him off her shoulders and makes him walk next to her.

 

He's never sure why, but even her smiles get a little smaller when she does that.

 

But once they're gone and they’re alone again, her smile goes back to normal and she picks him up and swings him around and they play on the swings and she lets him pretend he’s big enough that he can fly already. And she makes the best sound effects.

 

He spends a lot of time with ___. He sees his mama less, and he doesn't like that, even though he likes Bee.

\----

 

GB thinks it a little weird. Bee doesn't take him to the park anymore. 

 

Her smile is small when she asks him if he wants to practice for his junior league. She's already got his glove in one hand, his awesome bat in the other.

 

He wants to ask her why she's so sad, but her eyes are wide and shiny. The pretty colors he can usually find in her gaze are dark and he feels scared.

 

He doesn't know why, but if Bee is scared then something isn't right.

 

Her voice is shakey when she asks him again if he wants to play some baseball.

 

He says yes, more so for her than for him.

 

He keeps looking at her from under the brim of his cap. He can only see her back as she takes him on her bicycle, legs pumping hard as she climbs the hill that leads away from the suburbs and onto the seaside bluffs just outside of town.

 

He grips onto the tandem seat with two hands and threads his remaining hands into the folds of Bee’s black sweater.

 

The steepness of the road makes him dizzy, but soon Bee gives one last puff of air and the bike rattles to a stop.

 

He doesn't feel scared anymore when he sees where she takes them.

 

It's a pretty field of flowers, dyed gold and pink in the light of a setting sun. The same field of flowers his parents loved taking him to on family outings.

 

He gives a delighted peal of laughter, his chest feeling less tight.

 

He hops off the bike, small hands grasping her pulling her away from the bike and into the middle of the field.

 

“Come on, Bee! I'll catch the ball. You throw it and le’ me win.”

 

And he smiles wider when his friend laughs too, the colors coming back into her eyes under the golden light.

 

The breeze blows through the stalks of golden flowers and he has no wishes to make.

____

 

One day Bee is ‘sittin him again (which doesn't make sense, but that's what mama says it is) and they're watching TV, but Bee is getting smaller and smaller even though the people on TV she's watching are getting louder and louder.

 

“Bee?”

 

“Yeah, GB?”

 

“Why’re you small?”

 

Bee looks confused, but he’s glad to see she looks less small because of it.

 

“What do you mean? I’m a lot bigger than you are, baby bee boy.”

 

Nuh-uh! He is  _ not  _ a babab-bee thing! He’s a  _ big boy  _ and she knows it! He puffs up and turns to face her from his seat on the carpet.

 

“No! I’m a big boy, you’re a baby bee! Why are you small?”

 

She gives him a weird smile and stands up from the couch to scoop him up in her arms. (She only has two, like some of his monster friends, but it’s still weird, because she doesn't have scales or fur or  _ anything.)  _ He tries pouting but she gives him a big sloppy kiss on the cheek and he can't help but giggle, and he affectionately rubs his antennae on her head in response.

 

“You’re a big boy, but I’m not small, see? I’m still taller than you are, silly-”

 

At that moment, there’s a loud  _ BANG  _ that cuts her off before she can finish speaking.

 

It’s  _ loud,  _ and  _ scary,  _ and  _ sudden,  _ and he immediately bursts into tears.

 

He presses his face into Bee’s shoulder and wraps all four arms and both legs around her in a vice grip. She hushes him and holds him and runs upstairs but she's shaking too, and he’s  _ terrified.  _ Three more bangs sound against the door.

 

“B-Bee? What’s going on-”

 

“Shh,” she hushes, “I need you to be as quiet as you can, okay Grillbee?” He can feel her rubbing circles on his back and he nods into her shoulder. He hears people talking - loudly, and saying the same things over and over again. He can only make out a few words - monster, traitor, scum, die - and he doesn't know what half of them mean.

 

“Why are they-”

 

“Shh, Grillbee, I have to make a phone call, please be quiet just a little longer…!”

 

He doesn't want to be quiet. He wants to ask why he hears crashing noises and loud voices and why Bee ran upstairs into a room with all the lights off. But she sounds funny, so he stays quiet, or at least tries to, but he whimpers when Bee pries his two left arms off for a moment so she can get something from her pocket. She bounces him and let's him latch on again.

 

“...yes, i-is this G-Grillby? M-Mom told me to call i-in case something happened, there are people here, outside the house…!”

 

“...throwing things, window broke…”

 

“...not s-sure. We’re hiding…”

 

“...please h-hurry!”

 

It was still loud, but Grillbee was getting too tired to be scared. After Bee got off the phone (which he wasn't allowed to touch) she played silent games with him and it helped him forget the shouting, even though it never really stopped for a really long time.

 

His eyes were getting really droopy, and it was probably past his bedtime, when he realized all the angry voices from before were gone. There was a quiet knock on the door of the closet they were hiding in.

 

“_____? GB? It’s me. You called me on the phone. It’s safe to come out now, and your p...I’m here to take you downstairs. It’s okay.”

 

Grillbee recognized that voice.

 

Practically launching himself out of Bee’s arms, he flung open the closet doors and flew straight into his uncle’s chest, nearly bowling him over from his crouched position in the process. 

 

“Unca G! Unca G, is it okay now? Can we go back down? I’m tireded and it was really scary, and…”

 

He might have thought, for a moment, that Uncle Grillby’s patented warm hugs might have been a little too tight that night. But it was a fleeting thing, barely a thought at all, and just one more odd instance in a night filled with entirely too much excitement.

 

He barely even wondered about why Uncle Grillby had to talk to Bee after they put him to bed. His eyes closed, blurring the image of a comforting Uncle Grillby into a warm dancing flame. He fell asleep before he heard her crying.

 

\----

He hears you crying. 

 

You knock on his door every day.

 

You say you made a promise to take care of him...you promised Ambrosia you would take care of GB. Your mother had apparently made the same promise.

 

She did it in the only way she knew how. She used her Justice and her law to hold GB to her. She and your father signed the adoption papers just yesterday.

 

But all GB knows now are broken promises. His mother had promised him honey waffles for breakfast when she came back. She never did make them.

 

His father had promised to teach him how to finally fly when he got back. He never did.

 

They are gone.

 

And broken promises are terrible things that are sharp enough to cut.

 

So he doesn't open the door for you.

 

And still you stay, leaning your head against the door. You fist your hands over the green carpet, letting the aching pain of loss and sympathy drown you.

 

“It's okay GB...I'll be here. I hope it's enough.” You say quietly.

 

But nobody came.

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I hope all of my excitement at the beginning didn't throw you off, but? What do you think guys??? We've finally got that backstory from Bee!
> 
> Thanks for reading! And thanks to GIGI for...existing, really. ALRIGHTY. I HOPE YOU GUYS LIKED IT. Check out spill-the-skele-beans on tumblr for really neat bonus content! Some hints and theories about the souls, some discourse about snazzy and bee... and send in your own asks for an answer from the mysterious mod! :D Until next time!
> 
> (Kudos to our friends in the SU fandom who caught that chapter title!)


	14. To strip them of their inhibitions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> wherein your non existent love life is a catalyst for the plot and the gravity of the situation isn't as bad as you had thought. sort of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has read this story. Truly, thank you.

 

_It's eleven on a lazy Sunday morning. Your head is pounding and the sun seeps in painfully bright through the lovely purple curtains embroidered with golden leaves. It glares off the sheer white of the snow that crests the window sill._  
  
 _The couch you slept on smells pleasantly like a fireplace. It’s a nice scent to have in winter. It's everywhere in the stylish apartment, permeating even the thick brown carpet underneath your feet as you roll out from the pile of blankets you had slept in._  
  
 _You don't recall having put on so many, and with a fond smile you mumble._  
  
 _“Thanks Uncle Grillby.”_  
  
 _You walk quietly to the wide window, your headache threading up your neck and you resolve with certainty to dust your host for suggesting monster drinks as a substitute for alcohol. You were still a year away from the legal age for human alcohol, but monster stuff was legal territory for anyone over the age of eighteen._  
  
 _The side effects are easier to deal with, save for the headache and that dull fuzzy feeling in your chest. But it's subsided enough that you can squint a bit and look out at the lovely view of an Ebott Town crested in fresh snow. The white plains of the mountain sweep gracefully into the bay, nestling the center of the city just at its base. A melancholy feeling sweeps through you, something lonely and terrible._  
  
 _There's a lovely little cluster of suburbia just behind that._  
  
 _Somewhere in that distance, you know your family is celebrating Christmas without you._  
  
 _You feel cold despite the fact that the room is pleasantly warm and the crackling sound of a campfire grows louder as your host approaches._  
  
 _You turn away from the window to tilt your head at your host in acknowledgement._  
  
 _“Finally awake? You don't do very well with liquor, do you?” He laughs, his voice huffing with a light cracking sound._  
  
 _Normally you'd glare at him, but as it is, not even liquid courage with magic can make you forget your loneliness today. You're too tired, too sad, too scared to do much but shrug._  
  
 _He heaves a sad sigh. He looks tired  and a little sad too in his flannel red pajamas. Strangely bright with his flaming visage downcast as he his gaze turns distant._  
  
 _“The Honeys...I think...they would have wanted you there with them..with everyone. Even the Queen will be stopping by. As it is, I'm sure GB wants to see y-”_  
  
 _“No.” You say firmly and your mouth straightens into a grim line. “I can't.”_  
  
 _He raises a surprised brow? (You're not sure if those are eyebrows. You never asked.)_  
  
 _“You came all this way to what? To spend your winter break looking sad and drowning your sorrows? Why are you here?” His quiet voice pierces through your stubborn refusal._  
  
 _“I wanted to...to give him his present. But I'm too much of a coward to face GB again. Crap...Grillby, I know I'm a pain in the butt and I keep asking for favors, but could you please give it to him for me?” You beg, your hands curling inside the sleeves of your cream cardigan. “I promise I won't bother you again. I'm so-”_  
  
 _His laughter is hard and disbelieving._  
  
 _You stare bewildered because he's veritably doubled over with his elegant guffaws, his glasses skewed across his face. His flames flare merrily._  
  
 _“I can't believe this. I must pick my friends from the same pile every time. Oh…”_  
  
 _He laughs again when he catches sight of your bewildered and insulted expression._  
  
 _Grillby shakes his head, and points to a corner where there rests a messily wrapped parcel, the sparkling red covering is very wrinkled and the bow is a pitiful drooping thing._  
  
 _“You're not the first one to ask me that this year. My other friend asked the same thing. ‘Give my bro a present for me’ he said. The irony...oh the irony.”_  
  
 _You frown a bit, a strange sort of ire threading through you._  
  
 _“Is this that same friend you keep trying to set me up with? Well, he has no right. I have family friend dibs.” You growl, hands on your hips and melancholy dissipating in the face of this predicament._  
  
 _“He can claim the same. He's known me longer,__.” Grillby comments._  
  
 _You thread your hands through your messy hair and relent._  
  
 _“If it's too much trouble, I can just mail it. But I didn't want to wait in line at the post office or buy stamps or package it so it wouldn't be damaged. It's too much work.”_  
  
 _Grillby’s laughter is a little scary now and the crackling is wild and you groan in consternation. He's acting the part of mysterious Uncle Grillby. Annoyingly cryptic and as insubstantial as the fire that makes him up._  
  
 _“No. It's okay. I'll take it to GB. But you have to promise to give my friend a chance. It'll be fun. He’s-”_  
  
 _You raise your hand in protest._  
  
 _“I know. You gave me the spiel. A guy with a funny bone who's a physicist at my university and who has commitment issues and just a whole bunch of issues in general. Sounds like a catch.”_  
  
 _In the end, you're spared having to face your family. In the end, you agree to a blind date that is promptly cancelled by the guy with the funny bone using Grillby as a proxy. In the end, you go back to your apartment with the crowded shelf of ungifted presents. Things that you were too much or a coward to give to your br...your friend._  
  
 _In the end, nothing changed because you got caught in a time loop, alone._  
 _\---_  
  
This isn't the first time he does this. He's such a selfish person, he thinks. But he has to know that you're okay.   
  
He has to know that wherever you are, however much you may hate him, that you're still living and laughing.  
  
So it's only with the oldest of regrets that he hides behind the doorjamb, all four small hands clinging tightly to the aging wood as he eavesdrops on his mother’s conversation.  
  
He's absolutely coiled up in anticipation. He has to consciously stop his tattered wings from buzzing with nervousness, but the extra strain causes the faintest pangs of pain to radiate across his back.  
  
He takes it in stride, rubbing at the base of his wings tucked under his green jacket. ‘I deserve this.’   
  
And then there's a slight curve to his smile when he realizes how angry you would have gotten if you'd heard him say that.  
  
(But there's always that slight piercing fear that you would agree. That you would say he did indeed deserve the pain...even if you've never given him cause to think so.)  
  
His brief wait is rewarded by some concrete information. Mom seems a bit distressed. Her pretty mouth is curled into a frown of of surprise. Her tone is partly incredulous and partly in awe as she speaks to someone he's heard her call Catherine.  
  
“Really?! So no Brazil this year. Well, that's _____ for you. Unpredictable and absolutely irresponsible. Where did she go then?” She readjusts her cell phone in her hand as she waits for a response.  
  
There's a brief high pitched answer that's muffled from the speaker, and then a sharp What?! from Mom.  
  
Her eyes, eyes that are so painfully  familiar in color to yours, widen in complete surprise. His scraggly antennae twitch forward, eagerly accepting anymore clues he can gather  
  
“What do you mean she eloped with a skeleton?!”  Her voice pitches with pure hysteria. There's little that can ruin his mother’s ever present confidence, but it seems like you're one of those people that can.   
  
There's another pause before your mother is practically seething.  
  
“Catherine, this isn't the time for jokes. I need to know where she's run off to this time. That...he's...I know who you're talking about. Sans is...it’s just not safe for her right now. Please.”  
  
And worry threads through him, lacing deep into his chest until he feels he can't breathe.  
  
He's young, but not obtuse. It's not the skeleton he's worried about. He's never heard of purposefully problematic monsters...maybe he's biased because he is one, but he implicitly trusts this skeleton at the very least with an ease born of kinship.   
  
But he's seen the headlines. There aren't many skeletons. In fact there's only two who came out with the rest of them. He’s never personally met them and he doesn't watch enough TV to know who is who. He'd been in the unique position to grow up more among humans than other monsters.  
  
The one named Papyrus is missing. His loss had sent shockwaves through the community, a rippling sadness that encompassed those that knew him with a feeling of dreadful anticipation. And the other skeleton..well, the rumors swirled darkly sparking from human to human.   
  
Something about justice. Something about protection. That's all he knows about this Sans.   
  
It is fear that Mom tries to protect him from. He's gently coddled, but it's a little too late to protect him from the horrors of the world.  
  
He's lost a whole family already.   
  
He's not going to lose another. He has to find you.   
  
He has a lot of things to tell you.  
  
And he packs them all up into a growing list that unfurls in his mind, muttering it all out loud as he packs his little green backpack with things he may need as soon as Mom shuts off the light in his room.  
  
In goes two pairs of pants.  
  
 _Tell you that I'm sorry._  
  
In goes several rolled up mismatched socks in varying shades of orange and yellow.  
  
 _Tell you that I want to be a professional baseball player._  
  
In goes a first aid kit and what little he has in his money bank. He stuffs the entirety of the grinning bear into his bag. It's heavy with his allowance. Saving is something you'd taught him how to do.  
  
 _Tell you that I like someone in my class._  
  
In goes a picture frame that holds a photo.of you and him. He's holding tight onto your shoulder, cheek pressed up right against yours as you both smile wide.  
  
(The same picture that was face down on your desk.)  
  
 _Tell you that I love you._  
  
He is especially silent with that last bit, whispering it to the watching stars as he slips through his window and climbs eagerly down the vines that trail up the side of the house.  
  
The moon is a laughing crescent, watching GB slip away into the night.   
\----  
  
It's with an almost blessed switch that you find your calm little road trip devolving into a race against time.  
  
A small town that's too tiny to even show up on the map you perused back at the gas station is your destination.  
  
There's something almost painfully bracing in the way Sans clings onto your shoulders. The tips of his fingers are dipping into the folds of your thick green jacket, just hard enough to feel the desperation that threads through him.  
  
You let it swallow you whole. You let the same feelings settle deep into your chest as you remember what he told you.  
  
“sometimes they don't just take monsters. sometimes it's humans. humans no one would miss.”  
  
You won't let anyone die. You're going to Act and turn the power of the Time itself against those who seek to do harm.  
  
You had asked who he meant by ‘they’. The coldness of his grin, the sharpness of his strange anticipation breaking across his normally cheerful face had you shivering long after.  
  
He didn't know who they were. They were elusive and strangely unpredictable, according to Sans. But you knew they were in for a bad time once he found them.  
  
The wind rushing past you is loud and it seems to wail go, go, go incessantly. Your heart is in your throat by the time you take the off ramp and park in the nearest gas station.  
  
The sun is graciously hidden behind silvery clouds, and there's a tepid breeze that blows through the weeds crawling out of the asphalt.  
  
You're so tired from the restless nights on bumpy mattresses, so you slump helplessly against your motorcycle, waiting for Sans to match up the mystery number on his phone with the pay phone inside the little convenience store.  
  
A few dandelions have gone to seed, and you're sorely tempted to grab one from the ground near your boots and make a wish.  
  
Before you can act, the telltale easy shuffling of your companion alerts you to his return.  
  
He looks strangely pensive, a bitter look of victory contorting his mouth. You give him a questioning tilt of your head, not really trusting your voice to work when your throat is so dry.  
  
It's cloudy, but you haven't had a drink for hours.  
  
But then he pulls out a large water bottle from his jacket pocket and hands it over to you a bit sheepishly.   
  
“sorry kid. forgot that humans need this stuff a lot more than monsters do.”  
  
You give a withering laugh, your giggles stuck to the inside of your mouth not because of your thirst, but because the way he smiles softly at you makes your heart choke out all sounds you try and make.  
  
Your usual wit is thoroughly jammed, stuck behind the pink flower that blooms across your cheeks. You look down at water bottle in your hands, turning it over and over until it catches the watery sunlight.  
  
“Y-yeah...it's not like I'm made of 55% water or anything.” You finally manage, and quickly drown out the heat in your cheeks by gulping down about half the bottle.  
  
“ya sure it's just 55%? you make it look like at least 70%.thought it actually was 70% though.” He laughs, and it's deep and round and a lot less bitter than it had been just a few days prior.  
  
“That's for a one year old kid. Adults have less.”  
  
He looks mildly impressed as he gives you a thumbs up. It's relief that makes him like this. Relief that unwinds his magic and lets his bones fall looser and more languid.   
  
(Relief that disappears whenever he can't make sure you’re okay. Something that makes you feel like he cares about your presence.)  
  
You squash that thought almost as soon as it begins circulating inside your head. Even still, it whispers and creeps at the back of your skull,  traitorous little tendrils that seek to grow alongside that golden hope inside you.  
  
You shouldn't read too much into his worry.  
  
Instead, you focus on appreciating the lack of tension when and where you can. Being back on the road is comforting, but at the same time a reminder that you’re traveling for a reason.  
  
“So,” you begin, once you’ve had your fill of the water. You appreciate the banter, but you decide to keep the conversation moving. “The number checks out? We’re still on track?”  
  
He gently declines the water bottle when you push it towards him questioningly, and you quickly tuck what’s left under your arm. You’ll put it in your bag before you leave. The smile stays on his face, but the conversation has turned serious.  
  
“yeah. still don’t know who’s making these calls, but this is definitely the place they called from last.” He pauses briefly before continuing. “and uh, those...people. whoever they are. you remember i said that they take humans, too?”   
  
You aren’t thirsty anymore, but you feel your throat close up again. You nod.  
  
“well, it looks like we’re going the right way, according to previous resets. but uh, there’s a town up ahead. and there’s this woman there. she... i don’t know why. but they’re after her.”   
  
You stare at him and watch as his whole form seems to sag. There’s a hint of anger, bubbling just beneath the surface, but it’s muted by a sense of deep frustration.  
  
You reach forward without thinking and rest a hand on his shoulder. He blinks, and his pupils go from dim to bright as he refocuses on you. Despite the knowledge that you must be flushed pink again, you don’t remove your hand.  
  
Sans reaches up and ghosts his fingers across the top of your hand, and it makes you shiver. You wait for him to continue, sensing that there’s more.  
  
After a moment, he sighs, and his fingers slip away from yours so he can stuff them in his jacket pocket. Gently, you take your hand off his shoulder. This time, he keeps eye contact as he speaks.  
  
“no matter what i do...how many times i try… i can never change anything. i can warn her, try and chase them off, but it’s always the same, and by the end of this week, she’s gone.”  
  
“What...what do you mean gone?” You ask, your voice shaking a little.   
  
He shrugs, his effort to look nonchalant fails as his voice cracks a little. His fingers clack-skid nervously against the ivory of his skull as he struggles with the anger and the fear that pervades him.  
  
“don't know. just gone. no sign of her except some poor crying, hungry kid who gets turned over to the state’s custody.”  
  
Fierce defiance rips through you as you realize another family is going to be torn apart because of these loops.  
  
“The police? They never find her?” You say distantly, already thinking of different scenarios that may play out.  
  
Sans gives a frustrated groan.   
  
“no and I don't think they care...all that much. considering her line of work isn't really seen as something respectable...which is really stupid. it's just a job...and she's just a mom.” He trails off, the lights in his eyes dimming.  
  
But you've got him beat. You've already accepted the circumstances, already settled the clues into your mind and have already laced what little determination you may have through your thoughts.  
  
You grip him tightly around his wrist and tug him unceremoniously onto the bike as you expertly sling your legs over it.  
  
“We’re going to save her. We’re going to save them.” You tell him, and you're a little too in the moment to look back at him as you settle your helmet over your head.  
  
Which is a shame, because if you had looked back, the look in his eyes would have made you curl your toes and  your throat choke up a little bit more.  
  
You're amazing in this moment. In his eyes, and he's not alone.   
  
You're his guiding star today and hopefully,for a little bit longer.  
\----  
  
The building is fairly non descript. Peach colored stucco is peeling away from the walls and the glass doors in the entry are covered over with black paper that blocks out any curious eyes.  
  
There's a vague thumping sound, the beat of electro jazz music with a bass dropping seeps in from under the door’s cracks.  
  
The flashing pink neon sign overhead says Gentleman’s Club in dainty cursive writing and you feel a strange sort of practiced neutrality settle over you.  
  
It's something that's been long practiced in your clinical rotations. You've seen your fair share of oddities. Your fair share of stupidities...like the one genius that tried his hand at creating fireworks in his kitchen.  
  
So it's not in you to really judge someone for their job. Still a strip club is the last place you would have ever expected to associate with Sans.  
  
“Do you...do you come to places like this often?” You whisper to him, finding it a little hard to read his expression in the growing night, despite the warm street lamps behind you two.  
  
There's an awkward shift in his stance. He scratches at his arm a bit, and his smile stretches until you can almost see it wrapping around the side of his face.  
  
His head swivels in your direction, eyes blank and you're starting to seriously wonder if you've made the right choice to get a crush on this idiot.  
  
“are you jealous?” He asks, and and his shoulders are shaking with suppressed mirth up until you hurl the empty water bottle at him with a half-hearted snarl.  
  
“In your dreams, Snazzy.” You bite out as it ineffectively bounces off his shoulder and onto the sidewalk.  
  
The lights come back into his eyes as he snickers into his hands, and you feel that familiar burning in your cheeks as you tell yourself that no, you're not jealous. Not one bit.  
  
“Look. I don't really give a flying fish about your after work activities. I was just curious and now’s not the time for this.”   
  
“sure. sure.” Sans waves you off, still laughing is he opens the door with a jaunty swing.   
  
You follow, your careful neutrality back in place as you step around the door Sans holds open for you. You let your eyes dart to him, narrowing a bit before you sigh and settle into your calm.  
  
Despite it all, a small smile curls your lips when he tugs on your sleeve and pulls you into the entryway.  
  
You're a little worried that the small town may have had a low exposure to monsters.  
  
But it's fairly dim, so neither you or Sans stand out. In this lighting, his silhouette could easily pass him for a human.   
  
The neon spotlights that shift colors and thrum to the beat of the music fill you with apprehension. There's a few dancers on the stage performing, lithe and nimble bodies spinning and gyrating skillfully.  
  
You can appreciate their hard work, the amount of strength it takes to hold themselves up against the poles, but besides that, you're looking for someone vaguely mom-looking.  
  
It finally hits you that you don't know much about who you're looking for and you really dig your elbow into Sans’ side because again, he's forgotten to fill you in on everything.   
  
(Blonde and pretty for a human didn’t give you much to go on...and you had just barely refrained from asking if you would be considered pretty for a human too.)  
  
The really tall security guard that hovers near the stage makes you nervous, but much to your surprise, his bulging neck resolves itself into a horsey face. A silky black mane draping over the collar of his black suit and a glistening green fish tail that slaps against the ground to the beat.  
  
You're a little torn...again. on the one hand, he's a monster. A familiar..ish face in a strange place. On the other, you're ninety nine percent sure that he's related to Dr. Muscles...your greatest tormentor back at the hospital.  
  
To be fair, you might just be exaggerating your associations, and that horsey confident grin is very friendly.  
  
You realize then it's directed at Sans. Another stab of not-jealousy twists in your chest, because if this monster knows Sans, then it might be because he visits here often.  
  
“Sans! I HAVEN'T SEEN YOU IN FOREVER. SINCE EBOTT.” The guard neighs over the thrumming sound.  
  
“hey aaron. long time, neigh see.”  
  
Or you know, they could just recognize each other from before...as most monsters seem to do.  
  
You feel strangely empty. Strangely alone as Sans leaves your side to go be engulfed in a hug by the guard.  
  
You distantly watch as they catch up on small talk, a detached smile floating on Sans’ face subtly tells you he's had that conversation before. There's the lazy way he waves his hand, gestures full of effort and empty of most emotion.  
  
And it's so strange seeing him fake his reactions when you're so used to him not. Then again, it wouldn't be fair to expect him to remain unaffected by the loops.  
  
You recognize a “done this before” moment when you see one. This is exactly that.  
  
You decide that time can be further saved if you start looking for one Ms. Goldie Glory.   
  
But the colors in the lounge are distorted and painfully bright pink. The thrumming of the music digs deep into your marrow and threads through you, making your earlier anxiety flare up into something almost primal and panicked.  
  
You would sincerely like to run away,  but someone’s life is in danger and you can’t let yourself do so.  
  
Distraction however comes in the form of a lithe, pretty woman with pastel pink hair and dressed in a decidedly intricate two piece studded in blue sequins. Her dark eyes seem a bit puzzled as she looks at you, but she seems to shrug off her confusion and wordlessly reaches for one of your clammy hands.  
  
“Hey there, hun. You look a little lost?” She says loudly.   
  
Her voice is sweet, and carries over well beyond the bass of the music. Your mouth goes dry and embarrassment sieves your words into a garbled explanation.  
  
“I just...with a friend...I’m not...I’m okay. I’m just...here to umm…find someone.”   
  
She laughs. It’s a delicate, high pitched laugh, but the underlying falsity of it makes your inwardly cringe. She still has her fingers wrapped around your wrist, and she looks at through very full lashes that have a bit of glitter on them.  
  
“Well, here, have a seat sweetheart.”  She says as she leads to you an empty booth.   
  
You feel so out of place, because everywhere else is occupied by men of different ages and the occasional group of giggling girls who seem to find joy in the novelty of the experience.  
  
You sink into the old vinyl seat with an awkward sigh, and while you try and place your hands primly on your lap, you find that one of them is still being held prisoner by your host.  
  
Much to your extreme discomfort, she’s taking a few liberties with your proximity. She continues the small talk, occasionally interspersing her high laughter with flirtatious touches to your arms and your waist and your legs.  
  
You feel a bit surreptitious and guilty. This is hard work and you’re wasting her time but you need to blend in.  
  
So you encourage her. You order a drink, something light and fruity that you hope doesn't have too much alcohol in it.   
  
She manages to coax you into paying for a dance.  
  
Really you're such a sucker. You let your guilt bully you into handing her the last of your change. You cry on the inside, offering her the wad of wrinkled tens.  
  
Unfortunately, she's good at her job.  
  
She shakes her head and laughs again, shifting forward not the least bit subtly until her shoulder is pressed up against yours and the edge of her sequined bralette irritates the skin on your arm.  
  
“It's not fun that way, sweetheart.”  
  
You choke on your drink. And still offer her the cash with your hand.  
  
She looks puzzled, before she finally takes it from your hand and it tucks it into some magical storage place in between her hip and little shorts.  
  
“That's enough for a five minute dance.” She tells you.  
  
You shoot a helpless look at Sans, who has finally stopped talking with the security guard long enough to catch sight of your position.  
  
Unfortunately again, it's too late. The dancer has already set herself in front of you and has begun to writhe seductively against your legs.   
  
Your face feels so warm and you roll you eyes up towards the dark colors of the ceiling, to avoid looking at her. You can still feel the few brushes of contact her legs make against yours, but you ignore it.  
  
Somewhere behind all the base of the music, you're almost sure you can hear Sans’ familiar rolling laughter. And even if it's your imagination, you can just catch sight of him beyond her gyrations to see that he's nearly doubled over in laughter.  
  
You're going to kill him.  
  
(She's just doing her job. You're just trying to save someone you don't know. But this is too much.)  
  
You’re really trying your best to be a good investigator. But there comes a time when things are just too much and you finally blurt out the truth when she's lowering her buttocks towards your lap.  
  
And the slight buzz you've gotten from your drink makes you a little less patient.  
  
“I’m so sorry, but I’m not here for this!”   
  
You flail your arms at her, until she understands and creates a more comfortable distance between you and her.  
  
She looks torn between slight confusion and possibly offense, but then she catches the flickering of your eyes. The way they keep switching from her to a roaming Sans who's standing at the edge of the stage further back. And who is now pretending to watch the performers with a silly sort of concentration.  
  
You hope he can feel the murderous intent in your glare, because this is his fault. But he doesn't seem to notice and his eyes keep shifting between the dancers on stage  
  
Logic tells you that he's only looking for Ms.Glory. But your face is too expressive and you companion is astute.  
  
“It's written all over your face, Hun. You followed your fella here.” She sighs, before finally detaching herself from your side and sinking back into the cushion like a normal person.  
  
You almost choke on air.   
  
“My what?!”  
  
She laughs and it's still delicate, but it's less forced. Sweeter somehow.  
  
“Your boyfriend? Fiancé? Unrequited love?” She lists off, laughing again at your gaping mouth and horrified expression. “It happens all the time, sweetie. It's okay to be jealous. But does he know you're here?”  
  
She seems genuinely invested in what you have to say. Pity softens her come-hither look, and you can see the faint dark circles underneath her eyes. Her pink hair is beautiful. With a vague pang of homesickness, you are reminded of Catherine and her pastel hair.  
  
“I'm…it's not like that.”  
  
She opens her mouth, and your positive she's going to give you more kind assurances, but she catches sight of something over your shoulder.  
  
Her previously giddy, sympathetic expression flits between distaste, nervousness and then a stiff sort of smile that tells you whoever she's seen is someone she doesn't welcome.  
  
You quickly glance back and can just make out the tall form of a new visitor, dressed in an immaculate black suit with dark hair swept back and furrowed eyes.  
  
He doesn't smile. Doesn't even mouth a word as he meets your companion’s gaze and beckons her with a nod.  
  
She returns his gesture and her frozen expression softens when she turns to you.  
  
“Sorry sweetie. Whatever is going on, it’ll be fine. Just talk to your guy. Gotta go. That regular gets grumpy if I don't come right away.”  
  
She leaves you with a gentle pat on your shoulder, and while your heart beats in your throat, you notice that she directs the new customer to a booth just tucked away on the other side of the stage.  
  
As she and the man pass by Sans, you catch him stiffen. See his head turn to follow her as he appears to recognize her.  
  
You figure it out before he's even looked at you and jerked his head in the direction she left.  
  
You'd found Ms. Goldie Glory and let her slip from your attention. Sans gestures worriedly and his teeth are slightly grit. He looks annoyed and you can guess that he's a bit miffed that you hadn't told him you had found her.  
  
But he's still relaxed enough to make a joke once you approach him.  
  
“well, doesn't it just grind your gears when plans don't work out?”  
  
You could hit him on the shoulder again. You could angrily tell him just how much he grinds your gears. But that wouldn't wipe the smile off his face.  
  
The fruity drink from earlier still tingles on your tongue. Not as good as magic liquid courage, but just enough to make your inhibitions wilt away.  
  
So you take a page out of Ms. Glory’s book instead. You don't really think about it, because if you do, you won't follow through.  
  
Instead you just jerk down on his stupid fluffy jacket until he's a bit closer, tilt your head until you’re close enough to see the divots in his bony skull.  
  
Until you’re close enough to nearly brush your lips against his zygomatic arch...but not quite. You think better of it. Because his eyes have grown to starry lights and you're not sure yours are any different as you feel your pulse quicken until it's in step with the noisy music.  
  
He looks like he wants to say something, but he can't quite gather the words. Which is unusual for him. He's pretty good with saying the right things.  
  
His surprise cuts through your hazy logic. You feel warm and embarrassed now.  
  
Really, you need to think these things through.  
  
“Y-Yeah. Yeah it really grinds my gears.” You say, quickly letting him go and walking away.  
  
You don't look back as you head towards a closer vantage point around the other side of the enormous stage. You resist the urge to check and see if he's reacting.  
  
(And the thing is...he can't. He's frozen. He's hot and cold all at once and he’s brought up one hand to cover up the absolutely lovely shade of blue he's turning. He doesn't notice the soft, goofy smile that curls small over his face.)  
  
You then take a page out of his book, and wait patiently for a new development. You catch sight of pink hair and that same high pitched laughter.  
  
Shit, she's leaving. Through a door in the back of the stage.  
  
Oh crap.  
\------  
  
In the relatively short list of things he absolutely hates, distractions rank fairly high.  
  
He's not an easily distracted sort of skeleton. He's always been able to observe things with a lackadaisical veneer, something he's fairly proud of having perfected.  
  
People underestimate his effort. They also underestimate what he sees. There's not much that can totally hog his attention one way or the other.   
  
And then you'd gone and tripped him up.   
  
He isn’t sure what your intentions were. He understands the teasing glint in your eyes, the sharpness of ire and the slightly uncoordinated movements of someone half buzzed.  
  
There had been something else. It's not like you two haven’t been that close before. But every other time had been merely to assure the both of you that the other one was still here. A worry that could only be assuaged by physical confirmation, that yes, you both still exist.  
  
So that something else, that strange other thing...He blames that for his current predicament.  
  
“Well what now? She's gone.” You tell him with exasperation, threading your hands through your messy hair.  
  
He doesn't really think about it as he grabs your free hand and pulls you along.  
  
Out of the lounge with a hasty good bye to the security guard. Around the block for a bit.  
  
“we’ll wait. if she's leaving, the dancers usually come out of the back door.” He says, still trying to ignore the warmth of your fingers underneath his grasp.   
  
He's just trying to make sure you know where you're going. And it's now he wishes that he could just short cut again, but that only serves as a reminder of the pain it had caused you, and the tender feelings in his chest lash out at that train of thought.  
  
Reality spreads itself thin and fierce when your fingers curl around his for a moment.  
  
Your footsteps are still noisy as you both amble your way to the back of the building.  
  
“Okay? So when we see her, do we invite her to tea and discuss the meaning of life?”  
  
His mouth twitches with your humor. There's something endearing about your sarcasm, and he feels oddly bereft when you slip your hand from his and cross your arms over your chest.  
  
(He doesn't notice the small look of loss that flashes in your expression.)  
  
“sure. if that sounds like a good plan to brew.”   
  
“Bad pun.”  
  
He chuckles.   
  
then it's simply a matter of waiting again. Something he's gotten so used to doing, but for some reason, feels so much harder to do with you next to him.  
  
You're not even a very dynamic person. You're steady in your movements. You always take a moment or two to think about what you're going to do and if you don't, you usually end up a panicked little mess.  
  
He likes that about you. So he doesn't quite understand why his Soul feels like it's battering against his ribcage or why his magic is gathering as sweat at the base of his skull and in the gaps of his fingers.  
  
He is distracted again. Perhaps that's why when the door bursts open, and Ms.Glory steps out, he starts talking to grab her attention.  
  
And he's left you unprepared to do much but stare at the pretty woman with the blonde hair and tired eyes.  
  
“he-”  
  
He doesn't get to say much more than that when the woman shrieks and pulls out a sparkly pink canister of pepper spray.  
  
He hears your own squeal of warning, and it's the only thing that prepares him for the uncomfortable rush of spray through his eye sockets.  
  
It doesn't hurt, just feels a bit weird.  
  
She’s still screaming, and you seem to be in too much shock to do much but peel yourself away from your hiding spot and watch with that pretty mouth of yours agape.  
  
He tries again, with humor this time.  
  
“look...can i just spray something. you-”  
  
“Oh my God! WHO ARE YOU AND WHAT DO YOU WANT?!” She shouts.  
  
He tries to speak past her shouting, but when she sees that he's unaffected, she lobs the tiny canister at him. Usually he would be able to move quick enough, but you've moved forward and put yourself in front of him to stop her from hurting him further. His Soul spins double time.  
  
Still your valiant effort comes a bit too late. The pepper spray can flies right over your shoulder. And He must really have bad luck, because she aimed it just right.  
  
It lands with a comical, hollow thunk in his left eye socket.  
  
shit.  
  
He's distracted again. It feels too weird. He frantically pats at the edges of his eye, fishing unsuccessfully for the intrusive object.  
  
She gives one last shriek, pushes past him with a force that sends the object in his eye rolling in the socket, and she escapes. Out the small alley and across the empty street.  
  
You watch her form grow smaller and smaller with wide eyes before you Act again. He feels your fingers thread through his and he's tugged into a run as you chase after her.  
  
He's bounced along, the metallic clang clang echoing in his skull is giving him a headache.  
  
He wonders if you’ve always been able to run this fast and he wonders if this city will ever do anything about this uneven pavement.  
  
“Wait! Ms.Glory!” You call frantically as a parking lot comes into view.  
  
And it's all for nothing, because she gets into her old dilapidated green Volvo and tears past you guys without looking back.  
  
Oh double shit.  
  
The screeching of the tires is deafening, and he just  
wants to slump over on the asphalt and sleep, but your hand is still holding his and you're looking at him with an accusatory expression.  
  
“Now what?”  
  
He can't quite see. His field of of vision is narrowed down, and the darkness that edges in on one side is fiercely disquieting. But your hand in his is a welcome anchor.  
  
He reassures himself and you that there's still time to come up with a plan. He just needs to be able to see again.  
  
He's glad that you keep holding his hand on the walk back to the motel.  
\----  
  
“would you stop making it roll around?!”  
  
“I would if you stopped wiggling away like that!”  
  
“i don't like people poking into my eye sockets, kid!”  
  
“Look! I'm a nurse…In-training. Getting foreign objects out of people is part of my job.” You say, still digging around to grasp the end of the can. You get it once, but it gets caught on the edge of his socket and falls back into the inky darkness.   
  
He wiggles away again.  
  
You don't know if you want to collapse into a pile of giggles at this point or just dump the forceps from your first aid kit into his other eye socket.  
  
You take out your forceps and pull away to glare at him.  
  
He doesn't look at you, merely rubs at the edges around his eye as he tries to alleviate some of the discomfort.  
  
It's adorable and a little silly, the way he's letting you help him. And you feel a little proud that he does trust you enough with this. Or maybe it really is a bad experience for him. He’s not even trying to make puns.  
  
You're both sitting on the beige carpet of your motel room, angled towards each other so that you can try and pry out the the canister that has temporarily turned your companion into a walking maraca.  
  
It's too warm here. Even with the air conditioner on, the heat is still crawling up your neck. You want to blame it on a bad cooling system, but you'd be lying to yourself if you did. And you're pretty sure this is the longest time you've spent staring at his face in such close proximity.  
  
Correlation is causation, in this case.  
  
You can feel the flush on your face and yet you still spend some time admiring the soft ivory of his skull. The loveliness of the white bone and the subtle blue tinge that is only visible in dim lamplight.  
  
“damn. still can’t see.”  
  
You blink back to awareness, and clip your forceps at him with some measure of agitation.  
  
“Of course not. I still haven't gotten it out. You've got me in a cornea, Snazzy. You can't do this yourself and yet you won't stay still long enough for me to fish it out.”  
  
He lets out a single guffaw, before he petulantly says-  
  
“that one doesn’t work for me. don't got a cornea.”  
  
“Eye don't care. Still a good pun.”  
  
“better.” He answers, still rubbing at his eye. “but this still sucks.”  
  
“Someone's ornery today.”  
  
“you try having something lodged in your eye.”  
  
You mull over things for a moment. Magic? Doesn't he have that convenient magic?  
  
“Can't you just, I don't know, levitate it out?”  
  
He starts to shake his head, but the rattling begins and he seems to think better of it.  
  
“doesn't work on myself. or anything a part of me.” He sighs. “i’m a reference point.”  
  
“A what?”  
  
“patience doesn't move. Space moves around me, not the other way around.”  
  
“That's...complicated. Okay so technically you could levitate your clothes? And if I was touching you would it still work? How far up could you even make me go?”   
  
You’re trying to distract him from the discomfort, but it doesn't seem to be working all too well. Instead you're caught up in the possibilities of being able to be free of gravity for a bit. Your smile is wide and excited as you contemplate this.  
  
“uhhh...yes. don't know. into space.” He says, amusement making his cheeks dig into his eyes, before wincing.  
  
“You don't even know how cool this is! And doesn't seem like you’ve even though much about it. Can we test it out sometime? It sounds super fun.” You say brightly, reaching forward with your forceps in hand to try and get the canister again.  
  
He leans away from you and the forceps snap in the empty air in front of his eye.  
  
He looks surprised as he realizes what you've just asked.  
  
“you really want to try that?”  
  
“Uh duh. Lots of humans have dreamed about flying. Doesn't make me special.” You shrug. “But only if you want...I give you my full permission to use me as a human flight test subject.”  
  
“no...seriously? you'd trust me with your gravity like that?” He looks incredulous. Doubtful.   
  
But you sincerely do trust him and you've been curious ever since the first time he used it to keep you from tripping. It seems like so long ago now, and the fact that you've come so far together makes you happy.  
  
“Again. Uh duhhh. Now hold still.” You say cheerfully, clipping the forceps in his direction again.  
  
He tries to stay put. He really does, but the sensation of cold metal against the edges of his socket feels foreign and painful.  
  
You're barely an inch or so inside the inky emptiness, and it's strange and you have so many questions that you're just going to chalk up to magic for now.  
  
He grimaces a bit, as you flounder about and when it slips from your clamp one final time, he pulls away with a surprisingly high pitched yelp.  
  
“just...oww...just...give up.” He says, waving you and your ineffectual forceps away from his eye.  
  
“I'm at a loss. It's not the pepper spray that kills you, but the thing in your eye socket that does? And do you even have nerve endings? Or how exactly do you sense things?  
  
It's a testament to your patience that you don't decide to go to bed for tonight when he gives you an uncoordinated set of jazz hands and says-  
  
“maaagic.” Quickly followed by a small ow because he'd shaken his head again to laugh.  
  
You decide a more direct course of action might help. You recall your earlier trick with some hesitation. You're not drunk enough to use that as an excuse, but there's that feeling in you that wants to be a little bit selfish. A little more bold.  
  
He can't suspect you if you've never given him any indication to.  
  
You're safe in his incredulity. Safe in his ignorance of most things romantic.  
  
You place the forceps down.  
  
“Hey Snas!”  
  
He stops rubbing his eye and looks at you with a frown that's dangerously close to a pout.  
  
You don't warn him when you surge forward and softly press your forehead to his. The bone is warmer than you would have expected, and softer too. It gives a little, but you take his stillness as an opportunity.  
  
You reach up to his eye socket, and skillfully and very very quickly pry out the canister.  
  
You lean back with a small victory whoop! And throw the pepper spray behind you.  
  
It lands with a muffled thump on the carpet and doesn't do much to fill in the strained silence that ensues.  
  
“Success. Not the most optical way to fix it, but it  worked.” You tell him playfully, moving to nudge him, but pausing when you notice that his smile is frozen on his face. His eyes are dim, and the lights are shrunken down to the size of dimes.  
  
Your heart sinks deep until you can feel it weighing down in your stomach. You feel a little nauseous as regret fills up your chest.  
  
“I'm so-”  
  
“knock, knock.”  
  
You're not quite sure what to make of this. His grin is still wide and unnatural and his eyes are still dim.  
  
But he speaks past his smile and his tone is bowling you over with it's earnestness.  
  
“Uh...um who's there?” You choke out, digging your hands into the folds of your sleeping shirt.  
  
“iris.”  
  
“Iris who?”  
  
There's a sudden weight in your chest that isn't your leaden heart. A fierce tugging sensation, and then without warning, you slowly find yourself floating up into the air, feet first.  
  
“What?!”  
  
You rise up, until your feet are flat against the ceiling and you are tilting your head back to look at Sans.  
  
He’s only got one finger pointed at you and he's leaning back on his arms to look up at you, the perfect picture of relaxation and poise.   
  
Your hair blocks the way a little, floating all around your face as if you were suspended in water. A tendril tickles your nose, but you're unable to move to scratch it.  
  
He laughs at your expression. Your mouth is caught between a smile of wonder and a string of questions.  
  
“iris you'd done that sooner. Now…” He pauses, and with a turn of his finger, you are suddenly floating down again. He’s turning you over and under, causing you to drift very slowly through the air until you feel accustomed to it.  
  
“Holy crap. This is amazing!” You say, eyes rolling around to follow your dizzying progression. Through the window, you can catch the world flipped on it's axis.  
  
The distant plateaus silhouetted against the dusk are suddenly your sky. The lovely purple sky is darkening and the first stars that peek out are too strange to feel solid like solid ground. Your horizons are turned on an axis.  
  
You feel frightened and awed at the prospect of there being nothing below you.  
  
But his magic is strong and it encompasses you with such a protective intent, that you can't help but close your eyes.  
  
Sans seems to feel the acceptance...the trust you consciously decide to place in him.  
  
He smiles and rotates you until you are horizontal to the floor, face towards the ceiling. You try not to compare yourself to a rotisserie chicken, because this experience is just too special for that.  
  
But the giddiness and the imagery all combine into this happily bubbling feeling that blooms in your chest with alacrity. There is no where else for it to go but up, and your laughter falls from you as if it too has had its gravity changed.  
  
There's something so gentle about this. You close your eyes. You trust him absolutely and settle into the curling movements, floating like you would in that lazy river you so loved in the Ebott water park.  
  
You can almost fall asleep, until his rolling laughter sounds close. Too close.  
  
Your eyes bolt open and you can't breathe because he's too close. You tilt your head back to get a good look at himZ You can just see the brightness of his eyes past the drifting strands of hair that get in the way.  
  
The lights in his eyes are huge and starry again, and the blue that was there on his face before isn't and your heart is beating because he's so close. The fur of his jacket is tickling your chin and he's still leaning back and you're floating just a few inches above him.  
  
“N-now what?” You say, but the words are mumbled and reluctant.  
  
“we can see eye to eye!”   
  
He leans forward with an expression of mischief that buries something like affection. He looks determined for once.  
  
Your groan of frustration is a stillborn thing because he surges forward and presses his forehead to yours. Not a kiss. But something just as affectionate. Something sweetly naive in its repetition.   
  
When he pulls back, your lips are straining to say something.  
  
But you are stuck. In time...in space..in affection so fierce it might just make you cry…which honestly isn't that hard to do these days.  
  
And he seems to feel something else. His laughter settles into a quiet thing, and he's staring wide eyed and blue faced again.  
  
He tilts his head a bit. And you move yours and-  
  
Oh god...is he closer...what is-  
  
With a lazy flick of his wrist, he sends you upwards quickly, and then plops you unceremoniously onto your bed. You barely have time to feel surprised.  
  
You land softly, and it doesn't knock out the breath from your lungs because you hadn't been doing much breathing to begin with.  
  
You're sprawled out, hands over your head and your face looking up at the ceiling.  
  
“You're such a bonehead. That's not fair. You have magic.” You say as best as you can...which isn't very loud because your lungs are still recovering and your brain is still spinning and your heart is still racing.  
  
He laughs long and hard at that.  
  
“just followed your example. you could say the pupil has surpassed the master.”  
  
You turn over, and throw you pillow at him.  
It lands against his skull with a thwump, and when you look over, he's flat on his back, pillow over his head and he's still laughing.  
  
You don't even bother to hide your smile this time. You laugh right along with him, ignoring the thundering of your heart in your chest. There is no time to be distracted, even when you still feel as effervescently happy as you were in zero gravity.   
  
(And Sans...ignores that little disturbing feeling that's gone from a seed to a sprout. Ignores the heaviness of new emotional roots he's never experienced. It's a distraction. You're a distraction...the best kind.)  
  
When you both calm down enough to speak again, you let your earlier concerns out. In a way that's both brusque and not angry. He finally realizes that he's left you too much in the dark.   
  
“sorry, I was being such a…”  
  
“Bonehead?” You provide jokingly.  
  
He rolls his eyes.  
  
“you already used that one.”  
  
“Numbskull?”  
  
“cliche.”  
  
“Emotionally constipated skeleton who doesn't even have a gastrointestinal tract, so this name doesn't really make sense.”  
  
“uhhh…”  
  
You roll your eyes at him, sticking out your tongue childishly.   
  
“I'm joking. You're just my bony friend who has communication troubles.”  
  
(He tries really hard not to linger on the fact that bone friend sounds too much like boyfriend.)  
  
“heh. that works...what i mean is i’m still not used to not being alone?” He says sheepishly, his fingers scratching at the back of his head with a faint clacking sound. “i should have given you more info, bud. but I didn’t want...”  
  
You roll over on your bed to get a good look at him. You bring up your arm to press down on the side of your pillow so that it doesn't block your sight.  
  
He's still sitting on the floor, at the foot of his bed. His head lists in your direction, and his teeth are in that same seamless configuration they get to when he's uncomfortable. You try not to let your curiosity override you empathy.   
  
“Didn't want what?” Your tone is soft. Careful. You treat him with the same patience he's given you, and he seems to appreciate that because his smile slackens almost entirely until it's not a smile.  
  
“didn’t want to let you know that i have absolutely no idea what to do right now. s’not your fault. i’ve uh...always been bad at accepting when I didn't know something. it doesn't usually happen and when it does, I can usually wait it out until i do.”  
  
You hear the big ‘but’ hanging off after his words. He seems to be waiting for your earlier cheer to devolve into anger, or perhaps...does he think you're just going to leave him because he's admitted he doesn't know what he's doing?  
  
“That isn't really a big deal. I figured things have changed so much from the past loops, we’re both lost. What you do know is still more than what I do, Sans. I trust you.”   
  
His face turns into the nicest shade of cyan, the color spreading across his skull with an almost worrying speed.  
  
“uh...thanks...that means a lot. sorry again.”  
  
He does look sincere, his eye sockets wide and his grin is more of a grimace in his realization. You figure hanging him over the coals would be counterproductive, and your little crush is still very good at softening your harder feelings.  
  
You also get it. You really do. Sans has had to deal with the time loops for far longer than you. It's easier to harden yourself, to learn how to be alone when everyone else will just forget. And you figure having a human with barely a grasp on the situation trailing behind you like a lost little bird, well...it's no wonder.  
  
Your self deprecation stings a lot, but you bury it deep in a yawn.  
  
He calls your name.   
  
You lift your head off your pillow to get a better look at him. His smile is soft and his eyes are half closed as he glances over at you.  
  
“i really trust you too. so we’re okay?”  
  
You give him a lazy reassuring grin, half buried again in your pillow so that he can't see that it's nearly splitting your face with your glee.  
  
“We were never not okay. Just talk to me more in the future. We can even play the ketchup game again.” You words come out a little muffled, but you mean them.   
  
You don't ask him to promise you. You hate when people pry a promise from you. You're not going to do that to him.  
  
He takes a while to answer, but he looks immensely relieved. He breathes a sigh, his shoulders slumping against the foot of his bed.  
  
You let the silence lull you into a tired perseverance.  
  
Exhaustion settles over you. It subtly presses against your eyelids, until they drift half closed and Sans looks like a watery blue blob.  
  
His words sound distorted, like a familiar song played in a fading memory.  
  
“i’ll talk. just...don't leave?”  
  
It's a strange request. You're not entirely sure where it comes from, but the inherent vulnerability of it all hits you even half asleep. You nod your head into your pillow, your jaw too heavy with sleep to answer with anything but-  
  
“Yeah. I won't.”  
  
There's a long pause wherein you finally do fall asleep.  
  
You feel exhaustion heavy upon you, like a thick blanket. You don't wake up to realize that Sans has actually pulled a spare cover over you.  
  
“g’night neighbor.” He chuckles, letting his fingers hover over your forehead for a bit, hesitating. He still remembers that strange softness he'd seen in your eyes, twice today. And he's not so sure it's as unfamiliar as he likes to pretend, because there's a similar feeling that's taken up residence in his chest.  
  
Grillby would have been a great person to ask about this...maybe even Tori. As much as he's lived, he's inexperienced in whatever you would call this. A close friendship? An emotional crutch? It’s so new, he doesn't trust it not to come back and hurt him down the road.  
  
You let out a soft snore, completely unaware of the questions you make him ask himself. You are innocent in a way. Not as jaded. Still hopeful. He snickers as he remembers your reaction to Ms.Glory’s dance.  
  
You are at once predictable and an anomaly.  
  
His Soul fills with affection for you. He brushes back an errant strand of hair behind your ear and even if his fingers prickle at the strangeness of it getting caught in between his bones, he wants to keep threading his fingers through it. He stops himself from touching any more.  
  
It only makes the feeling worse. So he goes to sleep, and faces your curled up silhouette to assure himself that you are still here.  
  
For once, he doesn't dream.  
\--  
You dream of golden flowers curling brown and then wilting, giving way to a field of little purple blooms. And you stand among them, feeling at home and not. In a place of being that merely exists in the future.  
  
You still have no wishes to make.  
  
A child with pretty currant eyes watches you, standing a little lonely in the sea of purple flowers. They look immensely frustrated, grasping a few of the blooms and crushing the petals in their small hands.  
  
Their short auburn hair drifts in the breeze, and they are angry when they ask you-  
  
“Why don't you want to go back? You’ve done it before, hypocrite. What's changed?” The voice rings out, somehow sweeter with their anger. More natural.  
  
What had changed…the flowers here are purple for one and there's a single large flower in the distance, blue and calm and encouraging. It's cyan petals almost glow in the golden hour, and it echoes a singular message.  
  
“just...don't leave.”  
  
You look at it with a fierce fondness and that somehow answers the child’s question. Yet, they are Determined. They can't do anything but refuse now.  
  
“Of course. It's always him. He ruins everything, the smiley trash bag.”  
  
You feel a vague sense of pity for them, and it feels right when you pick a flower from its stem, and offer it to them with a welcoming smile.  
  
They scoff at you. They are still determined.  
  
But you are not. That made, makes, will make all the difference. You watch the twilight sky fade away into inky night, blue stars dotting the expanse.  
  
When you turn to look for the child again, there's only a golden flower in their place.  
  
For some reason, it makes you feel like crying.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SO SORRY. I hadn't realized it had been so long and this past year has been interesting and eventful to say the least. Sinnabee has been an amazing friend and has supported me in so much, including this chapter. So from Sinnabee and me, please accept this chapter


	15. To Help and Bee Helped

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which no one finds what they’re looking for, but they find something they need. 
> 
> Or the chapter in which kindness gets you nothing but fluff.
> 
> THANK YOU TO MY STUPENDOUS AMAZING, CO AUTHOR SINNABEE FOR WRITING LIKE NINETY NINE PERCENT OF THIS CHAPTER.

_There's too many people. They’re too big, and your ribs are already banged up and your ankle might be sprained or broken. They had barely touched you and you're already on the floor._

_His tiny baseball bat...his favorite thing...is on the floor with you. You should pick it up. You should Fight._

_He's calling for you. He needs you to Act._

_But your arms sting against the gravel and you are frozen. It's as if a bunch of weeds have wound their way through your very bones. There's a heaviness in your chest and you cannot accept this...you cannot refuse it either._

_It's too much when you catch sight of his dusty and bruised face beyond the tangle of their legs. His black eyes are wide and pained and so frightened. One antenna is bent the wrong way, a wing has been torn and lies crooked against his curled up body. He’s reaching for you._

_He sees you and you're on the ground and he's still reaching for you, his mouth soundlessly forming your name._

_But you don't move. You're too scared and oh you want to disappear...to go back. You refuse. You scream. You cry, but still you make no sound._

_Through your tears, you look away from the dusty yellow lump a few meters away, and catch sight of a cluster of golden flowers._

_They look like golden stars. You want to make a wish...you want to go back. To refuse. To save him. To stop them._

_“ I don't want this.”_

_The words fall out of your mouth with your bile. You can almost see them pooling with your spit, creating a dark spot on the sand._

_One of the flowers shakes with laughter and you wonder if you're going insane. Your world begins to spin and you just might be imagining the feeling of vines twining around your arm._

_It doesn't matter._

_Because nobody came._  
\---

GB is a reasonably capable kid. He is sure of where his research has lead him. He trusts his sources, I.e the vaguely creepy blog keeping him updated on your whereabouts. It had taken him a few days to follow the clues, but he did it. He is confident in his small eclectic set of sleuthing skills.

But he’s still just a kid, and he's really feeling that now as he looks up at the high rises in the gritty city. There’s hardly any blue in the sky. Gray clouds cover every spare inch of blue, and he misses the openness of home with its golden flower fields and bluffs dropping down into the wide ocean.

It's too loud now, and he's nearly felt his Soul leave his body a few times when a police siren echoed through the heavy traffic and another when a stranger had tried to sell him some monster candy.

He remembered your warnings about white vans and stranger danger and had politely declined, breaking into a run as soon as he was around the corner.

His antennae are working overtime to sort out a variety of smells, some really good and some gross. His head is buzzing with all the sensory overload.

He hides a small laugh in his red scarf. You would have liked that pun. He looks in between the busy streets and tries to his best to make it look like he belongs.

The good thing about being a monster is that most humans are too polite and too awkward to try and guess his age. Even if he looks like a kid, there are plenty of adult monsters that maintain neotenic features well into their hundreds. There's also a healthy sized monster population in this city. The people are used to them.

So the looks he's getting aren’t as numerous as the ones he'd been getting back in the countryside bus stops. It's been a week. He's gotten surprisingly far on normal transportation, but sometimes the monotony makes him wish that his right wing wasn't an uneven mess and that he could fly.

He was born with that innate ability. And some mean, scared humans had taken it away. He blames them. Never you. Sometimes himself. Mom blames you though and he can hear it everytime she talks about you.

It's not that she admits it, but simply the clearest resentment that settles into her pretty eyes when she's brushing his fuzz and she looks at his crumpled wing.

And it makes him so sad, because he loves you and he loves Mom, but there's a gap there not even he can breach. He wonders if you hate him for that.

There's a danger here. Being used to monsters isn't the same thing as accepting them. Being curious about monsters isn't the same thing as loving them.

And he knows what loving means. It's when Mom watches his baseball games and waves a giant foam finger in the air every time he hits the ball. Loving is when you used to sit outside his door waiting for him to talk. loving is when his parents had died fighting for a future where he could live freely.

Loving is looking for you when you've run away despite the horrible fear that pierces his Soul. The fear that's rooted in your last goodbye and the other vague fear that comes from nowhere but his intuition.

It starts to rain and he's not sure if it's that or his own tears that trickle down his face as he remembers the last time he saw you.

You with your brilliant, broken smile. You with your pace moving forward, ready to board a flight to your new university. You with that old gray backpack slung over your shoulder, and barely a goodbye to him and Mom and Dad.

It had hurt, but he had been happy. Because you were forever making yourself small. But in that instant, in a crowded airport walking away from him, you had seemed so much bigger. So much more free.

He wonders if in someway, his existence had taken away your wings too. He wants to ask. He wants to find you.

But the city is large and the rain is cold. So he looks for shelter first.

He finds it underneath the awning of a little Chinese restaurant. It's too early in the morning for it to be open, so he feels moderately safe waiting out the rain in the alcove where the entrance is.

He settles his bag next to him and sits with his back leaning against the glass doors. Zips up his green jacket a bit more to stave off the cold.

It's almost nice. Listening to the rain and watching the city, but before he can fully relax, there's a commotion right in front of his shelter.

A human girl, just barely taller than he is, struggling with her umbrella. It's a frail old thing that's turned inside out, and the rain and wind aren't doing the girl any good as she struggles to flip her umbrella back.

“Oh no...oh god. Seriously? Today? When I have to open…”

Kindness has always been in GB’s nature. One could argue it's the nature of all monsters, but GB has always had a special inclination for it. He just always happens to be in the right place to help.

So he runs forward into the rain and uses all four of his hands to push the umbrella back into shape and hand it back to the girl.

Once she's got a good grip on her righted umbrella, she smiles brightly at him from underneath dark bangs and foggy glasses.

“Thank you so much! Gosh. It's raining really hard.” She doesn't say anything else before tugging him closer, to stand with her inside the umbrella’s shelter.

GB is...pleasantly surprised. Her vivid expressions had bounced from frustrated to happy to grateful in the span of seconds. He clasps all four of his hands together, a little bit sheepish as she corrals the both of them under the same awning he'd been sitting under.

He feels a flush of embarrassment crawl over his face when she pulls out a set of keys and opens the door.

“Umm...I'm sorry, Miss. I was...sitting in front of your store.”

The girl laughs, gives a smile that reminds him of sunbeams and it's really a comfort to meet a sunny person when the rain is falling so hard.

She opens the door, while struggling to close her stubborn umbrella. He helps again by pushing down the sides carefully.

When she's done, she thanks him again and waves off his apology.

“You don't need to make such a buzz about it. It's cold and I'm guessing you don't have anywhere to go for now. So please come inside and warm up!”

His gratitude wells up in his throat and her pun had only served to make the burning in his eyes coalesce into a single point.

His tears are warm as they trail again down his raw cheeks and she panics, her arms flailing.

“Oh no! I'm so sorry! Was that offensive? That was offensive! I'm so sorry. I have this horrible tendency to say the wrong things...I just oh god, I'm really-”

Another round of apologies from her when all the flailing nearly causes her umbrella to poke his eye out. She hides her face in her hand, distorting her squeal of embarrassment.

“It's okay!” He laughs, wiping away the tears with the edge of his sleeve. “It's okay. You're fine. It was funny.”

She looks up again with so much relief and gives him a gentler smile. Something that isn't pity or curiosity or fear. It's simply good old kindness making itself known.

“Well then umm…” She looks at him, her words trailing off into the rain with a delicate politeness that's so different from you, that it makes him laughs again.

“GB!” He says, still sniffling a little.

She nods and ushers him inside.

“Well GB, it's nice to meet you! My name is Lilo.”

The door closes behind the two of them with a cheerful ring, and the restaurant is a lot warmer than the outside but it's the exchange of genuine kindness between strangers that relieves the frigid numbness seeping into his little body.

And it's still raining and he still hasn't found you, but this kindness is just enough to keep him going.  
\---

Lilo Cheng has seen her share of monsters. She's always been one to think the best of others. To make a conscious choice to find greatest qualities she can in anyone she meets.

Sure she has the occasional flubs...like the one time she asked a goat monster if they were a vegetarian, but he had been such a genuinely kind person and she'd managed to pick up her self esteem off the floor fast enough to serve him.

So seeing a monster child, a bee one at that, hadn't really flustered her. In fact, he had been the second monster she'd met in the past three days. And both encounters had been pleasant and filled with laughter.

GB was a sweet kid, and after finding out that puns were actually more than welcome, they'd spent the better part of the morning exchanging them while she prepared Tiny China for opening. He helped a lot, eager and cheerful in a way that made her glad she could be the one to help him today.

“I can give you a hand...or four.” He had said. And promptly picked up a frightening stack of dishes taller than his head. But he'd set them down with such careful skill and a confident smile, that there was no need to worry.

Her boss, Ming, had entered at 9 AM sharp, with a confident little stride and a no nonsense expression. She took one look at GB, who had been picking at a small bowl of rice, and the sternness had melted.

Lilo was glad Ming loved kids...apparently even cute bee kids.

Ming sat at GB’s booth to pat his back and tell him how handsome he was, and talk to him a bit before more customers began arriving. Every time the Lilo came over to join the conversation or just check on him, the little monster perked up and gave them a bright smile. He seemed a little nervous when Ming asked where his parents were, but when he said he came alone today, she just told him to bring them in next time.

“I’d love to meet the parents of such a nice boy!” She said cheerfully. Lilo couldn’t resist smiling herself as GB blushed and Ming gave him one last pat on the back before moving on.

After a busy morning of setup and a few choice questions, Lilo had managed to gather that he was searching for his sister and that apparently he did have permission to travel alone. (Something about his large shifting eyes told her this wasn't totally true. But she's not going to pry.)

Her guest is currently napping...so adorably...in a back booth. She can just make out the top of his yellow head leaning against the cold window. There's a lull in customers for now.

The rain isn't falling any longer. The sun breaking through a few clouds. The light softens everything to a gentle peace. She wonders if GB feels warm again...at least his sleep is uneventful and the lines of sadness have smoothed away from his round cheeks.

The lunch rush has passed, and she can calmly watch over him as she idly cleans a few tables near the door. She contents herself with serving the few customers that linger, and when the bell at the entrance rings again at precisely 4:36 PM, she feels a rush of glee.

They're back. Her most recent favorite customers. (Look, she loves people. She's allowed to have more than a few favorites.)

But they deserve her happy anticipation. The skeleton monster is tall and foreboding before you glance up at the sparkling depths of his eyes and are on the receiving end of his genuine praise. And the teenager with him is every bit as charismatic as Lilo is accident prone.

They speak in sign language, but with the little that she does know and the translations from their friend, she manages to piece together just how confident and sweet this adolescent is.

Today they come in dressed for the rain. The skeleton is cloaked in a red scarf and startlingly orange windbreaker. The human is in a thick yellow Hoodie, brown hair still damp from the drizzle.

“GREETINGS TINY HUMAN! WE HAVE RETURNED. IT IS A PLEASURE TO BE SERVED BY YOU AGAIN.”

Ah yes. She doesn't jump this time. She's prepared herself for the skeleton’s umm lively voice.

“Hello again Sans! Hello Chara! And oh gosh, the pleasure is actually mine! Your usual table is free if you want to sit there again.” Lilo smiles, picking up a few menus as she greets them. Her face is nearly splitting in two, trying to contain her joy. “The buffet is ready, so feel free to pick a plate and go for it. I'd even say the food is knives and ready!”

She throws in that last pun in full preparation for the long groan that comes from her customer. But Chara laughs hard, bending over and slapping their knees with a very quiet set of giggles.

“Sorry about the pun. Seemed like a real dinner to me.” Lilo says, and nearly falls over with laughter herself as the skeleton gives her a look of bemused disappointment.

There's a bit of nostalgia in there too. As if she’s reminding him of something that hurts.

“WELL LITTLE HUMAN. EVEN IF I, THE GREEE…” He seems to pause here with a startling quickness, Chara’s hand on his shoulder is gentle, but somehow admonishing. Their eyes are narrowed and almost look red in the light, but they look a little sad too.

“I Umm. YES. I APPRECIATE THE PUNS...EVEN IF THEY ARE NOT TO MY TASTE.”

Lilo’s eyes widen and so do Chara’s as they both realize what he's just said. They burst into laughter, Lilo hiding her giggles behind the menus and Chara leaning against the exposed brick wall.

“Oh Dear…” He says in such a quiet voice and they laugh harder. Ming chances a curious glance in their direction, before deciding that it's not very interesting.

He recovers quite nicely however and Lilo has a hard time disagreeing when he exclaims-

“IT APPEARS I AM SO GREAT, I INADVERTENTLY MADE A PUN MYSELF.”

“Yes. It was a very nice one! Would you two like something to drink?” Lilo says, stifling her last few snorts, as she leads them to a booth just two rows away from GB’s.

She catches a few movements of the teenager’s hands and looks up at Sans as he translates.

“Fr...I MEAN, MY FRIEND WOULD LIKE SOME FIZZY DRINK...AND I MYSELF WILL HAVE SOME WATER...PLEASE AND THANK YOU!”

“I'll be right back with your orders!” Lilo chirps, and quickly heads over to the kitchen to get their drinks. She brings them out fairly quickly and heads to the back to help out.

Still, she watches them from her station, through the aperture that opens out from the kitchen into the dining room.

Sans sits in the booth, awkwardly trying to make himself fit into the corner by the window. He does it with such a happy expression, that Lilo finds herself watching for the sheer bliss of seeing someone so optimistic.

He talks with his companion, his voice is quieter now, occasionally pitching into his familiar bravado. The teenager’s hands are a flurry of signs, and she laments not having taken more care to learn sign language.

There's an aura of melancholy that surrounds them. She doesn't quite know what it is about their expressions, but there's a worry that furrows their brows and dampens their smiles.

She'd like to help. She wants to...but there isn't much she can do besides serving them to her best ability and perhaps getting them both to laugh.

She decides that their sadness isn’t something she should pry into. But she can give them a free serving of ice cream. And with that, she turns away and leaves them to their discussion. She keeps an eye out for GB.

He's still sleeping.

Only he's not quite there yet. He drifts in between wake and sleep, the brightness of the sun and silvery clouds makes it hard to fall asleep completely.

But he's warm and he's almost dreaming as he catches strains of a conversation that's not his to hear.

“Why?....Chara…someone important to me.” This is said by a very quiet, slightly hoarse voice. As if this person isn't used to speaking at all.

“-ns. He Is The Second Best.” A subdued voice that feels like it's straining to be quiet.

“I see.”

There's no sense to this. GB drifts off back to sleep, dreaming of basking in sunlight, feet in lapping waves. He dreams of you next to him, head tilted towards the sky with a soft smile on your face.

You turn to look at him and your voice rings out with soft clarity, gentle and warm.

“Sans...”

Sans…

Sans.

Sans.

The word seems to bounce around in his brain, crashing against him like the waves he could feel at his feet. It echos oddly in his dream, and bit by bit his delicate illusion dissolves until he’s left feeling a little sore from sleeping in the booth and blearily wondering what the time is.

He doesn’t quite recall what his dream was about, but he has a vague impression of your smile that leaves him feeling lighter and sadder all at once.

Slowly, GB manages to wake himself up fully. He looks around to find the restaurant mostly empty. Lilo is waving to someone as they walk out the door. As he makes his way to the front, he hears the tail-end of some groaning and soft giggles that bring his thoughts wandering back to his dream. Had you been laughing? He wasn’t sure.

“Goodbye, you two! I hope that you’ll stop by here again sometime! Good luck!”

GB approaches as Lilo waves the pair off and catches a flash of yellow out of the corner of his eye. He turns to look, but whoever it was, they’re already out the door.

Lilo readjusts her grip on the broom and dustpan she has in her hands and GB carefully approaches her. The wall clock behind the register informs him that it was nearing 5:00. He...needs to get going.

“Uh, Lilo?”

The girl jumps and spins around a little too quickly...and GB only barely manages to keep her from falling over on him, though she did end up dropping her glasses on the floor.

“Oh! Oh, sorry GB, I didn’t see you there, I guess you startled me! Sorry, sorry, haha…” Lilo’s face is red and she’s nervously patting down her apron. He just smiles at her and tries his best to look cool and nonchalant as he waves her off.

(It isn’t quite successful, because while one hand is managing it, two are fiddling with the hem of his shirt and one is gripping the strap of his backpack a little too tightly.)

“It’s fine! I just came up front to pay, I uh, I didn’t mean to stay this long, and I should probably get going…”

Quickly, he shoves one hand into his pocket and draws out a handful of crumpled bills that he pushes into her face without counting. He figures she could give him the right change, and usually Mom or Dad paid, not him, so he was feeling nervous.

Lilo glances between his outstretched hand and his face several times, and GB opens up his hand a little more, waiting for her to take it.

Some kind of emotion settles in her eyes, and Lilo leans the broom and dustpan up against the counter before gently taking his hand in hers and closing his fingers back around the bills. GB feels his eyes go wide, but she just smiles at him.

“Hey, no worries! It’s on the house, okay? My treat, as thanks for helping me out with my umbrella this morning.”

He doesn’t know what to say. Earlier this morning, he had been feeling a little scared, and missing home. But then he ran into this stranger who smiled and told him jokes and now she was paying for his food, and he felt overwhelmed by her kindness.

Before he can really think about what he’s doing, he jumps forward and wraps all of his arms around her in a hug.

He’s sniffling a bit, but he tries not to show it.

“Thank you so much! I...you didn’t have to be so nice, but you were, and now you’re paying for my food and just...thank you.”

GB backs up and feels embarrassed, but it fades when she gives him a hug in return and he pulls back and sees the warm smile that she’s still got on her face.

“You’re welcome! I’m always happy to help someone out.” Lilo adjusts her glasses and grins as something occurs to her. “You know, you’re the second - well, technically the third - person to give me a surprise goodbye hug today! Sans and Chara were super sweet just like you are, GB.”

Suddenly GB feels his brain stall.

“Did you say...Sans?” He asks hesitantly.

Lilo blinks and then nods with another smile.

“Yeah! He and his friend Chara were in here earlier. Sans is this really tall, cheerful skeleton - he seemed kind of intimidating at first, actually, but he’s as sweet as pie! And Chara was really friendly too, if a bit quiet. They just left. Do you know them?”

Abruptly he thinks of the flash of yellow he saw just before he started talked to Lilo. She was wishing someone goodbye.

Sans the skeleton. Yellow. Yellow...like the yellow you always wore?

GB couldn't believe it. What if you were using an alias? What if this Chara person was you?

Suddenly, a much more terrifying thought occurs to him.

What if he was too late?

He is almost panicked in his fervor, and he makes an aborted half-step towards Lilo again.

“Which way did they go? Did you see? I have to find them! They're the people I’m looking for!”

Lilo jumps and the realization comes upon her all at once.

“Oh. Oh! You were looking for - so that must be - is Chara your -?”

GB nods his head frantically, his antennae bobbing up and down and his wings shaking against his back.

“Yes! Yes, that’s gotta be my sister! She’s traveling with a skeleton named Sans, it has to be them!”

“Oh oh oh!” Lilo yelps, clapping her hands together three times and then pressing them against her cheeks. “It’s ah….west! They're heading to Crescent City and the only bus that goes there is, uuuh, one sec!”

Lilo awkwardly manages to reach over the counter with the register and rip off some blank receipt paper and grab a pen. As quickly as she can she scribbles down the directions to the right bus stop, flips it over and scribbles one more thing, and then she hands it over to an anxious GB.

“There you go GB! Good luck catching up! I hope you find them!”

This time, she pulls him in for a quick but firm hug before herding him toward the door with one last “Be careful and stay safe!”

GB manages one more grateful look over his shoulder, and then he’s running down the street.

He doesn’t know how long it takes him, but eventually he comes to a stop, panting heavily and realizing...he has no idea where he is.

The sky is still overcast like it was that morning, and looking at the instructions Lilo gave him he realizes they've become useless.

 _Leave Tiny China, turn right and follow sidewalk for 2 blocks_  
Right at 32nd and 4th, walk for half a block  
Left at 5th N and Compton  
Bus stop on this road! You’ll see it on the corner - good luck!

GB looks up at the street signs near him. None of them are even close to where he needs to be.

He wants to scream in frustration, but settles for crumpling the paper in his hands. After a moment, he smooths it back out carefully with his hands before folding it up and tucking it carefully in his pocket.

GB decides to go with his gut, since he doesn’t really have any other ideas, and it seems like the right kind of idea. That’s what people always seem to do when they go on adventures in video games and movies. So he picks a direction and starts running again.

The rain starts back up, at first a light drizzle, and then a little heavier as time goes on. GB doesn’t know how long he’s been running, but the urge to cry becomes stronger and harder to resist.

He was so close! He was so close…

His steps slow and he comes to a stop in the middle of a sidewalk that’s been abandoned in the face of the newest wave of rain.

“What am I doing?” He asks no one. He’s soaking wet, his wings feel uncomfortably heavy and he’s lost his only lead. “Please, can somebody just...help me find them?”

And...somebody came.

“NYEH! CHARA! WHAT HAVE I TOLD YOU ABOUT THE PUDDLE STOMPING? WE MUST DO IT TOGETHER!”

GB lifts his gaze up from the gray concrete and his drenched sneakers.

There, across the street, hard to see because of the rain (and just the rain, he definitely wasn’t crying) are two figures talking and laughing by the bus stop.

One is tall, holding an umbrella above their heads, and one…

...is yellow.

GB feels tears well up in his eyes all over again, and before he can even think about what he’s doing, he’s charged across the street and flung himself at the yellow blob, rapidly taking the shape of his sister.

“BEE!”

They turn right as he gets to them, and he flings himself full force at her, not even caring anymore that he’s crying, and he’s probably getting snot all over her sweater, because he’s found her and now they can finally go home-

“Bee! ____, I’m sorry, please don’t run away with a skeleton and get married, please don’t! I know you probably hate me but Mom said that you ran away and I had a really bad feeling! And what if I’m part of the reason you ran away? I’m sorry Bee, I’m sorry so please, please don’t run away and never see me again because I love you so much and I don’t want you to be gone forever! It’s even okay if you hate me but I hope you don’t even though you probably do, I promise I’ll get bigger and stronger and protect both of us, and Mom will stop giving you those looks and we you can all come to watch my baseball games together and, and everything will be o-okay again, a-and -”

You’re shushing him gently and rubbing his back, but...something isn’t right about it. You hands move hesitantly and even bump into his wings a few times, even though every other time you’d comforted him you knew exactly how to rub his back and make him feel better. You don’t make shushing noises, you hum and…

And this isn’t right.

GB gradually comes back to his senses and hears the tall skeleton trying to make comforting noises as well.

Slowly, GB lets go of all four handfuls of yellow sweater and pushes away from you.

Except...it’s not you. He isn’t looking at his sister, he’s looking at a different human, one with a short bob of brown hair and narrow eyes, who’s staring at him in concern and still rubbing one hand on his upper right arm to try and comfort him.

All three of them are shielded from the rain overhead by the tall skeleton’s umbrella. His eyes, too, are looking down at GB worriedly, and he seems to be twisting the umbrella in his hands in anxiousness.

“ARE YOU ALRIGHT?”

GB blinks up at him and then looks back to this...imposter. Sister imposter!

“You’re not my sister!” He practically shouts, taking a step back and causing the human to let their hand fall back to their side. GB realizes what he’s done and flushes, but carries on regardless. “You’re not my sister!” He repeats again, wiping furiously at his eyes with one arm and gripping his backpack with the other three. He looks up to the tall skeleton. “But… aren’t you Sans?”

The imposter and the maybe-Sans look at each other awkwardly.

“ER...WELL, NO. I AM...NOT THE SANS YOU MUST BE LOOKING FOR. SORRY.”

GB looks between them. That’s not his sister...and that’s not the right Sans.

GB takes two fistfuls of his favorite green jacket and stares down at the concrete and clenches his fists so hard his hands begin to shake.

He is determined not to cry. He is not going to cry again, because he isn't as big crybaby, he was pretty much grown up, and grown ups definitely did not cry like he had been doing. Even though he really, really wants to.

“Hey.”

GB looks up at the sound of the sister imposter’s soft, slightly raspy voice.

They smile at him warmly and gently tug him all the way back under the umbrella. GB doesn’t say anything when they begin rubbing his arm again, because even though it’s not what you would do, it still feels nice.

“So...why are you looking for Sans? Something about your sister?”

The skeleton perks up at that and flashes GB a blinding grin, and he automatically smiles back.

“YES, I WAS WONDERING THAT TOO! WHAT DOES MY BROTHER SANS HAVE TO DO WITH YOUR SISTER?”

GB rubs at his eyes and sniffles absently, but begins to explain. Both human and monster wait patienly as he stumbles through it, but he manages to mostly convey why he’s out looking for you.

“And…” GB glances at the human who is now patting his back gently. “You were wearing yellow, and that’s her favorite color, and I couldn’t really see you through the rain…”

The human gives him one final pat before retracting their hand and giving him a smile instead.

“WOWIE! THAT’S QUITE A COINCIDENCE. HMMM…”

Suddenly, GB recalls what the loud skeleton said earlier.

“Your brother?”

The two exchange another look, and the human nods.

“YES! I AM, IN FACT, NOT SANS, BUT ACTUALLY HIS MUCH COOLER BROTHER…!” Here, he stops and leans down a bit, one hand held against his mouth as to prevent anyone else from over hearing. GB leans forward eagerly.

Then, at an only marginally quieter volume; “THE GREAT PAPYRUS! AND THIS IS NOT CHARA, BUT FRISK. IT’S A PLEASURE TO MEET YOU, SMALL BEE.”

Papyrus straightens up and gives him an audible wink. GB can’t help but to let out a small giggle, before he flares his wings for a moment to shake off some of the water that’s collected on them.

“I’m GB.” He says.

“WOWIE! WHAT A COOL NAME! WELL, GB, WOULD YOU LIKE TO TRAVEL WITH FRISK AND I? OF COURSE, WE WOULD LIKE FOR YOU TO CALL US CHARA AND SANS, AS WE ARE TRAVELING INCOGNITO, AND IF YOU WANT MAYBE YOU CAN HAVE A COOL CODENAME TOO!”

GB blinks at them slowly.

“Travel...with you guys?”

Frisk nods cheerfully, it seems to take them a bit of effort to speak, but they manage in a high pitched, delicate voice.

“We know you’re looking for your sister, but Sans is actually looking for us. We can’t let him find us, not just yet, but that means that eventually, we should run into him, and your sister. And even if we don’t, we can help you find them. How about it?”

GB considers it. It might take a little longer to find you, but...he won’t be alone anymore. And Frisk and Papyrus are so friendly and nice. He knows you wouldn’t like him out here looking for you alone, so…”

“Okay.”

Frisk and Papyrus cheer and GB feels another smile tug at his face. It feels nice not to be alone again.

He can see the bus turn onto the road in the distance, and Frisk and Papyrus shuffle with him closer to the stop.

Before it reaches them however, Papyrus abruptly shouts.

“WAIT ONE MOMENT! DID YOU SAY THAT MY BROTHER AND YOUR SISTER ELOPED!? SANS IS GETTING MARRIED, AND HE DIDN’T EVEN INVITE ME TO THE WEDDING!?”

Frisk bursts into laughter.

GB feels something warm and golden begin to bloom inside of him again.

\---

The morning brings with it a sunny day full of renewed optimism and an ease between you two that's unlike any other.

It seems your minor confessions of trust in one another had opened just one more door between you two. You inwardly rejoice, even when you listen to his ridiculous suggestions on how to get more information on Goldy.

You draw the line when he suggests a disguise and a plan that sounds vaguely like stalking...which is illegal, you point out.

He shrugs.

“i stalked you. and i’m not in jail.”

“Well...it's not like you were doing it for creepy reasons. You wanted to know more about the weirdo who wasn’t holding up the same patterns. Besides..” You tilt your head a bit confusedly. “I mean there isn't much that I do on a daily basis. It was probably more of a punishment than anything. You must have been so bored.”

“no...uh actually...you..uh... you aren’t a w-weirdo...you made things seem real again.” He says slowly, his eye lights shifting to the side and that familiar blue flush crawling on his cheeks.

You cough a little, plucking at the threads of the brown duvet to distract yourself. That isn’t necessarily a compliment. In fact it downright hurts hearing him admit that he was starting to lose his grip on reality before you came along...but it still makes your heart race. You’re still feeling a little raw from all the emotional tidbits last night.  
You can't barely manage a wry thanks.

You clear out your throat and decide to just get back to the subject at hand.

“Y-yeah...okay...but she's seen you already. she threw a can of pepper spray in your eye socket...you'd be too obvious.”

“exactly. it would be worse if it was me doing it. too conspicuous...but if it were you…in disguise” Sans looks relieved when you don’t pursue that line of thought and it might be your imagination, but he also looks disappointed. He stares at you for a bit before putting his hand in the large pocket of his jacket, fishing around, until with an adorable aha, he finds what he's looking for.

“Nope. Not doing it. Nope.” You protest vehemently, still incredulous at the fact that Sans has just pulled that out of his pocket. “How did it even occur to you to bring something so ridiculous?!”

“come on kid. it's the perfect disguise! no one would recognize you. whatever dignity you have left will be intact.” He says, barely restraining himself from chortling.

You snatch the offending pair of glasses from his hand. Large dark frames with a huge honking nose and a silly black moustache attached.

“Excuse you. Only I'm allowed to make fun of what little dignity I have left. And for your information, it was all perfectly intact until you came along.”

“that's not what you told me behind the door. didn't you say something about losing all your dignity the day you accidentally glued a patient’s pe-”

“Oh my god! Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” You squeak, shoulders scrunching up to your ears as you remember just what exactly you'd confessed to your neighbor when he had still been an unseen entity behind a locked door.

His laughter is warm and beautiful at your reaction. But your flushed cheeks don't give you much gravitas and eventually his snickers settle into a contented hum.

“Besides...it can't be any worse than the time you dislocated your arm, used ketchup as a remedy and named yourself Snazzy the Skeleton...and somehow that name seems really fitting for a guy who totes around whoopie cushions.” You retort.

He snorts, but looks at the pile of joke items on his bed with fondness.

You contemplate just how he managed to fit all that into his duffle bag, and frown a bit.

“We have limited space on my motorcycle. And out of all the things you deemed worthy of bringing, you wasted space on prank items.”

Sans looks a little offended at that, before pulling out his phone and shrugging. He wiggles his cell phone in your direction, his smile smug and eyes bright.

“magic, kid. just stored all this stuff in my phone inventory, that's all. didn't take up any of your space.”

You remember this. A little bit. When monsters had first come up from the surface, there was a huge hullabaloo. The people that used to make fun of their big, bulky old cell phone models were soon swallowing their words when it was discovered just what magical cell phones could do.

You also remember the ban on using the jet packs equipped on them in high school. Monster technology was still relatively hard to use without magic, and you've never been curious enough to ask any of your monster friends to check out their phones.

Again, you'd been very good at pruning that curiosity of yours...but here in this small motel room with a laughing skeleton whom you lo...like a lot, there's a freedom you hadn't expected. An openness and comfort that lets your curiosity wind its way through you until you're making childish grabby hands for his phone.

“Let me see!”

He looks a bit too happy, waving it away from your wriggling fingers at the last minute.

“don't you already phone one?” He says lazily, leaning away from you, propping himself up on the bed against some pillows.

“Yeah but it's not magic...and it's not cool.”

The bastard’s already making a show of pressing some buttons, pulling up a few bluish holograms that float over the phone.

Your curiosity is intensely trained on this new discovery. You'd been missing out. You try again, lurching just a bit trying to reach for the phone. You stand up from your bed, your knees hitting the edge of his mattress.

You huff in frustration as he uses his gravity magic to lift the phone a few feet above your heads.

He laughs, his mouth parting nicely. You lean forward a bit more. And then you realize that socks against an old worn carpet is a mistake. You let out a yelp, before you teeter forward and brace yourself against the mattress, hands splayed on either side of him.

He stops laughing.

Your momentum has laid him down flat and has draped your entire torso against his. It takes you a while to register the situation you're in...in the first few moments in takes your mind to reboot from its own blue screen of death, you detail a few things.

He's surprisingly soft; cushiony in a way you hadn't been expecting, except where your flesh presses against his clavicle bone and upper ribs. Those you can feel pretty thoroughly. His left pupil actually flares blue and yellow when he's using his gravity magic.

And he's somehow managed to turn a startling shade of blue. Glowing spectacularly just like the large blue flower you’d seen in your dream.

His eyes are wide as he looks up at your flushed face. his chest has stopped rising, which means he's stopped breathing.

You can't help but note that so have you. The tip of your nose is dangerously close to the edge of his jaw, it would be so easy to lean in and trace it along the smooth ivory. You mouth half open in a silent scream of terror. Your hair is slipping past your face, a few tendrils hanging in between the two of you.

You want to move. To Act and already your apologies are alight on your tongue, fluffing their feathers so that they may fly out upon command.

But the scent of petrichor stops them from ever fluttering. There's the vague humming of his magic. The stupid magic cell phone still floating above you both.

The hand not directing his magic is braced against your shoulder, as if to stop you from completely falling on him.

His gaze is heavy, his eyes shining hard with a strange sort of hesitation. He's too close...just like last night...but you can't put much stock in it. He doesn't realize what this means...he can't possibly know...he can't possibly feel this...but his hand is gentle on your shoulder.

Fear is in his eyes? That doesn't quite make sense. You're not going to hurt him. But god how embarrassing.

You have to stop this. You can't let yourself fall in love with someone who won't return your feelings...one sided as it is, you also realize that you're on a rescue mission. There shouldn't be time for this.

But it's you who is moving closer. He's not.

(And isn't that just like you...pushing your feelings onto someone else because you couldn't handle them.)

His nasal concha brushes against your cheek and he gives a small gasp of surprise. His fingers tense against your shoulder. You can still feel the smooth ivory press warm and steady against your skin, tangling a bit with the loose threads of your cardigan.

Panic enters you, painting your sight with bursts of color as you feel your breath seize up.

You don't think as you shove him away, even though it had been you who had been dangerously close to doing something that would unravel the knots in your carefully disguised feelings.

He seems taken aback by your sudden reaction.

“what the-”

Unfortunately you are again not thinking, but his fingers had tangled in your yellow sweater, and as he falls back, you are pulled with him.

You cry out, your chin hitting his shoulder hard and your shoulder bare as the cardigan slips off to reveal the strap of your loose tank top. You knocked him by accident into the pile of joke items and in his attempts to scramble out from under you, he sets off what has to be the most awkward whoopie cushion moment.

The loud pffffffft is compounded embarrassingly with the clunk of his cell phone as it falls onto his head.

You decide to stay where you are, chin smarting, face pressed against the fur of his hood and dignity all gone. He doesn't move either, not even when the air in the whoopie cushion peters out and you two are left in an awkward silence.

He finally breaks it with a delayed-

“owwwwww.”

It takes you a moment...a moment in which his fingers untangle from your sweater and move down to rest on your back. It might just be your imagination, but his bones are colder than usual, too hesitant against the yarn of your sweater.

Then you laugh. You laugh at your stupidity and you laugh at the situation. You laugh at the phone having fallen on his head and at the whoopie cushion being set off. You bury your laughter in the plush material of his jacket, clinging onto his arm with friendly abandon.

Miracle of miracles, you're not alone. He laughs too, a choking wheezing thing that's so beautiful in its oddity. You can feel his chest rise and fall under yours, guffaws breaking his usual calm.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you fully realize you're nestled against a living, laughing skeleton whom you may love. It's okay. You'll just enjoy this moment, in which for once you are both on the same page, the same space and same time.

You're just happy he can't see your wide smile. Your laughter fades out and still neither one of you moves. Half of your body is over his, the other half is on the mattress. It's awkward, but it's mostly because the tension has slowly eked its way back into his frame. The hardness of bone is belied by the straightness of his spine and the stiffness of his joints.

You simply stay. Warm and incredibly gentle as you rest your left hand on his shoulder and wrap the other around his arm.

Eventually you can feel the tension leak out of his bones like the tea you spilled on the day the monsters saw the sun again.

He seems to pause for a bit, his hand resting softly on your back, his arm curving over you, with just a modicum of space in between it and your shoulder.

“kid...is this...okay?”

You decide to play it off as casual, taking some advantage of his inexperience and the fact that most monsters you know engage in cuddling, platonic or otherwise.

“Yah...cuddling is totally a thing friends can do, Snas.” You chide quietly, praying that he will fall for your small bit of subterfuge. You're being so selfish, but this is nice and you haven't hugged someone like this in a long while.

You feel real. He feels real. So it surprises you immensely when his words feel like something from a dream.

“can we...stay like this for a bit?”

He says it quietly, pleading and you're not imagining the shame that leaks into his tone.

You know him well enough now to understand that he's ashamed of being vulnerable, of needing this kind of contact. You wonder if Papyrus used to hug him a lot...GB used to hug you like this...clinging onto you with such love and trust. You'd never been good at hiding your emotions, not even enough to protect GB from your hurt.

You wonder if Sans would even let Papyrus worry about him so much. From the vague hints you've gotten, you don't think so.

But then again, Sans is probably a better sibling than you ever were. You find it difficult to speak, so you just nod your head against him.

You feel your eyes sting, and for more than just satisfying the urgings of your romantic feelings, you hold him tighter.

He does too, threading his other hand so softly through your hair, and that's just enough to keep you from crying entirely.

You don't hear your phone ringing in your backpack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @sinnabee, you did write A LOT, DONT DENY IT.
> 
> @readers, Thank you for sticking along for the ride. I’m sorry if this chapter seemed less plot heavy than usual, but it’s a set up chapter.
> 
> Have a wonderful day!


	16. To Accept

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein there’s a lot of dialogue and you dream of what-if.
> 
> (Also the one that ran Away from the authors again.)

Eventually, Sans does enough incognito spying the next day to establish a few details about Goldy’s schedule. He has the good grace to look a bit ashamed as he lists out her usual haunts.

“...so the cafe on Elm Street would probably be the best place to try and talk to her.” He finishes, awkwardly. He shoves his hands in his pockets, and his eyes keep flicking over to you to gauge your reaction.

You nod. Your frown of contemplation can easily be taken as one of disapproval, but you really do understand why he had to follow her around. The issue comes in when it's time to use that information to find a way to approach her.

You blink at the messy scrawl of notes Sans has detailed on the last few pages of a worn notebook. You're sort of tempted to flip the pages to the beginning, where you'd seen flashes of hastily written equations and notes, colors splashed messily on illustrations of Souls and graphs.

You've asked him before for the bare summary of his work, but he's been a little vague, devolving into elementary level explanations that leave you having more questions than less. Sans seems to have this uncanny knack for digging up your curiosity and letting it grow. Much to your chagrin, he does it all so unconsciously, without offering it much sustenance.

So you're ultimately left with this gnawing, hungry feeling of dissatisfaction with what you do know. On the bright side, the whole “talk to me more” comment from zero gravity night, seems to be a good place to start. It's just...

Your thoughts that are usually so carefully patterned are scattered...in between your earlier cuddling session, the discussion of impending doom for Goldy, and your mother’s missed phone calls, you're feeling spread thin.

You'd heard your cell vibrating in your backpack after the ten minutes or so you spent sprawled over your friend. The quiet had been nice. Still and unmoving, save for the light sounds of air rushing through San’s nasal concha and the rise and fall of his chest.

You'd be lying if you said you hadn't been entirely dependent on your phone. Save for the occasional call from Catherine though and the friendly, casual texts from Undyne, you hadn't received any sort of contact these past few weeks. It made you feel lonely, forgotten.

So it wasn't unusual for you to scramble off of Sans, and reach for your phone. Only to see with a pang of fear that you had missed three calls from your mother.

You love your mother...you really do. But after the incident where GB lost his wings and had nearly died because you hadn't saved him, the distance between you two has gaped out into a yawning chasm not even your love can breach.

You had decided not to answer her, but the unusual circumstance still grates in your thoughts. Sans seems too preoccupied with his current plans to notice your distress and you are grateful for that small mercy.

You answer his observations with detached agreement, letting your thoughts flit in and out of different contemplations.

“okay...so? you can wear these glasses and this hot pink wig as a disguise.”

“Yah. Su- wait what?” You say flatly, your eyes honing in on the curling blob of tangled pink hair he holds in one hand and the pair of round glasses in the other. You shake your head vigorously. “I thought we ruled out disguises.”

“no. we ruled out the moustache glasses.” He replies, eyes bright with mischief. “besides, i’ll be close by. i’m not leaving you alone, kid.”

Something about that assurance doesn't seem all that bad. He says it in a way that's almost too intense for the overall conversation...like he's making you a promise.  
But then he lightens the mood with his next comment and you have to resist the urge to dive into your blankets and hide forever from those laughing eyes of his.

“okay...I'll wear the moustache glasses...but no one’s going to be paying attention to this ol’ bag of bones when there's a pretty girl in regular glasses inside the cafe. so...pleeeease.”

His eyes are starry, blown out in his sockets until he looks younger than he is. His smile is wide and cheeky. He's adorable. He's given you a compliment, and you know he's probably just joking, but it still makes feel a little dizzy.

And you heart is in your throat when you groan and nod your head.

“yes!”

“But no pink wig!” You shout past his laughter, stifling your own smile.  
\---

The cafe is a fairly stylish little business, with round wooden tables and wide window that overlook the park at the center of the small town.

Everything is new and sanded or faded to make it look like an antique. The shelves behind the counter are weighed down with coffee and tea blends. The display case is arranged tastefully with all kinds of cookies and ringed with colorful macarons.

It's cute, but you still prefer the Bean Hole. You're probably just biased, but this has all the artifice of comfort, but but none of it is settled in. Even the server girl looks stiff and uncomfortable with a too wide smile.

Her name tag is shiny and still has the plastic cover on it. She's new too.

You try and make her feel more comfortable with small talk and giving her a large tip. She seems to appreciate it, and her smile grows timid, but more natural when she hands you your mocha latte.

You pick a table in the back corner. Sans sits on the other side of the cafe, happily occupying one of the three armchairs placed by the window and hiding behind a newspaper. You suppress a smile, because even from here, you can catch the dull sheen of duct tape peeking out from San’s temple. He's used it to attach the ridiculous moustache glasses to his face.

Ms. Glory isn't here yet, so he shoots you a wink from behind his newspaper. He looks ridiculous. You hide your laugh in the lip of your coffee cup.

The bell on the door rings. You give a cursory glance and have to look twice to be sure that it's her.

She's not wearing a pink wig this time. She looks smaller, less other worldly without her work clothes. A slight woman with short blonde hair and minimal make up dressed in a lovely pink skirt and blouse.

The girl at the front looks more comfortable, but when she sees Ms. Glory, her smile softens into one of affectionate familiarity.

“Good morning Gloria! The usual today?”

Ms. Glory, aka Gloria, is just as sweet and polite as her work persona is. She tips generously and mercifully chooses a table next to yours.

You're unsure how to proceed. Sans seems to be firmly stuck behind his reading now, and you give an incredulous laugh when you notice he's reading The National Questioner. A tabloidesque compilation of stellar articles like I married a Snowdrake and now my baby is a furry and are monsters a hoax?

You look back to Gloria and see the rhinestone pin on her shirt collar. You thank the stars and all the forces that be that your freshman year roommate was a Theta Pi Sorority pledge and rack your brain for the over the top, peppy motto she'd always practiced with you.

You bite back every ounce of distaste you feel for what you're about to do, and pretend your voice is coated with liters of honey and sugar.

“Oh. My. Goooosh.”  
  
That came out so much more nasally than you'd ever intended, but it worked. It gets Gloria’s attention.

Her pretty eyes look at you with polite curiosity, and maybe a little fearful. You wouldn't blame her. The character you're playing is a force to be reckoned with.

“Can I help you, sweetie?”

You don't trust yourself not to laugh right now, so you tap at your own shirt to indicate her pin. You swallow down your contested pride, and say-

“Like...oh my gosh...Theta Pi, Live or Die, I am a Theta Pi!” You smile in what you hope looks like a friendly way and not a demented one. “Last year’s class.”

She stares at you for what seems an eternity, time stretching between you two until the awkwardness chokes you and you almost pray for another reset.

But then, miracle of miracles, her mouth softens into a broad smile that edges into her eyes.

“Oh god...what are the chances of meeting another Theta Pi way out here? What Chapter are you?” She says excitedly, nearly knocking over her coffee.

She's adorable, and you feel a twinge of guilt for lying to her. She doesn't seem to notice you smile slip. Instead she waves you over, and gestures to the chair across from her.

“Please sit! Tell me all about yourself!”

You'd been taken aback, completely unsure as to how you'd managed to so easily draw her into conversation. Then again, in such a small town, loneliness must be a constant companion. You simply let go of your reservations, grab your coffee, and move over to her table.

Only the brief flapping of newspaper pages lets you know that Sans has noticed.

You ignore him and begin cobbling together a story that's half yours and half your old roommate’s.

“I'm from the New Town chapter. I think we’re, like, one of the younger branches.” Your voice remains steady in this higher register, and you thank the heavens for that. You trace the rim of your cup, thinking for a bit before continuing. “I was a nursing major.”

Gloria gives you an impressed hum, eyes slightly muted with a tinge of sadness. You're not sure why, but she seems genuinely happy for you when she smiles and tells you congratulations for all your hard work.

“So how'd you end up all the way out here, sweetie?”

“I uh…I'm with a friend.”

Her eyes seem to narrow for a bit before the echo of familiarity skitters across her face. Her smile turns sympathetic as she reaches across the table for your clammy hand.

The pretty ruby ring on her finger bites a little into your skin, but it’s not painful. Your heart hammers into your throat as she tells you-

“I know you! You’re the girl from the club! The one with the fella!”

You’re about to apologize. To tell her that no, you’re not a Theta Pi, and that you have no idea what being in a sorority entailed besides doing keg stands and recruiting new girls every year. Tell her that yes, technically you were the companion of a stalker skeleton who only had the best intentions.

(Oh that’s a lie on two fronts. Sororities held charities and did a ton of community service. Sans’ intentions, as good as they may be, are still partly hidden to you.)

Before you can speak, she gives a sigh of pity in your direction and her smile softens impossibly into a state of dreamlike nostalgia.

“You’re in love with the person you followed here. You need some advice, hon. Lots of it. And I have time. So spill.”

Firstly, you’re entirely relieved that she doesn’t seem to remember that you were also the girl who’d tried to protect the skeleton she’d pepper sprayed. Secondly, You’re not entirely sure why, but you find your truths blooming against your lips. You want to spill.

There’s a certain flavor of charisma that laces her words, it’s cloying and demanding and not unpleasant. Her tone is gentle, her smile familiar and sisterly. Something tells you that if she really wanted to, she could ask the world for anything and it would turn and turn to give it to her.

Her pretty dark eyes are brown, but for a brief second a warm reddish tone sparks through her irises. You blink and the brown is flat and dark again. It must have been a trick of the light.

Your Soul is oddly quiet in your chest, and you find yourself spinning a tale that’s actually partly true. You tell it with the same sort of polite detachment you would whenever you spoke about a patient’s condition. You know it’s probably not the most convincing way, but if you put any more thought into it, it’ll hurt much more than you’re ready for.

“We’re friends...and he wanted company on this sort of business trip?” You shrug. “I...I didn’t realize that I...that I had those sorts of feelings up until a few weeks ago. Something... big happened and...he was there for me.”

You take your time to settle your heart, to snip at the tendrils of yearning that threaten to poke holes in your eyes and let water leak out of them. Somehow, the fact that he’s across the room and listening makes you feel keener on telling the truth. He wouldn’t know the difference...not for something like this.

You fiddle with the top of your coffee cup, wiping away some stray droplets.

“Why did he ask you along?” Gloria asks quietly, patting your hand a little impatiently. “He could have asked anyone else? Maybe…”

“No.” You cut her off gently before the assumption can even leave her mouth. “No. It’s because he needed my input on the job. There’s something that only I could help him with. Strictly business.” You hide your grimace in the lip of your cup, letting the coffee’s bitterness wash away your sadness.

Gloria waves that off with a toss of her hair, and a groan of disapproval.

“Fine. Give me something else to work with, sweetheart? What about...hmmm...what made you fall for him?”

You nearly spit out what you have in your mouth. As it is you give a faint wheeze, before coughing a bit into your sleeve.

“What?”

“I can’t gauge your situation without more details.”

“I repeat. What?”

She rolls her eyes, before handing you a clean napkin when you don’t stop coughing.

“You heard me. So talk, hon.”

You hear the turning of a page somewhere from Sans’ corner of the cafe. Something daring, something vindictive, curls through you and you blame him entirely for this predicament. You tap into the wellspring of affection you have for him, you pull up your fondest memories and the bitter ones and compile it all up as best as you can.

“We were neighbors back in New Town. I didn’t even know until later. He was actually one of the patients I got to meet on a clinical run. One of the funniest people I’d ever met. But it wasn’t a good day.”

“You weren’t at your best.” Gloria laughs. “Let me guess, you didn’t laugh at his jokes. Maybe there was a misunderstanding. On both sides. And then, you saw him again and you didn’t want to give him a second chance.”

You feel your jaw drop dangerously, before gathering your faculties and snapping it closed with an indignant click. You look at her warily, and she laughs harder, her hand patting yours with good humor.

“Go on.” She says.

You contemplate ending the conversation right here, but then you remember you haven’t gathered any more intel. And you need her to trust you...you’ve long learned trust is a two-way street and so you brace yourself and painstakingly tell her more.

You tell her, in as vague terms as possible, about how he’d found you at the Bean Hole. How he’d tease you and how you’d told him so many private things before you’d even known who he was. The whispered confessions at his door sound a lot creepier without time loops for context, so you spin it as a silly exchange of notes over time.

The nights spent drawing conclusions about Frisk’s and Pap’s whereabouts are crafted into nights playing fun murder mystery board games and video games. Slowly, you find yourself building up your relationship the way it could have been. Slow, careful, free of the constraints of tragedy and something normal. A friendship built upon casual encounters and late night talks.

Something that could have been good.

(But you’re not lying, are you? It’s all sort of true.)

You wonder if maybe, in another life, in another timeline, you could have met differently. Through healthier circumstances. Maybe he could have met GB and you could have met Paps. Maybe you and he and Alphys and Undyne and Tori and Frisk and Paps and GB could have had movie nights and sleep overs. Maybe you could have shared a basket of fries with him at Grillby’s and fended off the good natured teasing. Maybe...you could have been in a good enough place to tell him how much you like him.

Maybe...maybe…is a tragic thing to think about. You close your eyes and stow away all your maybe’s. You store them away deep inside of your heart, just like the piles of ungifted things in your closet.

You should be glad that you met Sans at all. This journey...it’s yours and his. That has to be enough.

You accept your circumstance. You finish your story.

“So...I wasn’t in a good place. And he helped me. And that’s when I realized that I...that I...cared about him.”

Your Soul is shifting slightly in your chest almost in protest. It’s acting in rebellion, knowing how much of an underestimation of your feelings this is. But you’re not ready.

Gloria looks tenderly at you, before closing her fingers over yours again and giving you a reassuring squeeze.

You expect her to tell you to confess today. To throw caution to the wind and to live life. Instead she gives you a hesitant smile, before asking you if you could accompany her on a walk.

You glance briefly at Sans who is still hidden behind the ridiculous tabloid. You see the top of his hat tip forward and back as he nods in the affirmative.

You tell her yes.  
——

“You’re not like me.” She tells you. She doesn’t elaborate just yet, and the following silence is quickly filled in by the distant quacking of the ducks and geese gliding in the artificial lake at the center of the park.

You feel your boots crunch across the gravel of the neat, new pathway built around the perimeter, and are waiting before you let yourself feel any sort offense to her comment.

In your chest, there’s a faint leaden feeling that tells you Sans isn’t far behind you two. You feel reassured and you let his innate Patience guide you as you wait.

It’s another few second until she continues.

“You know how to move. You have regrets, I can see that...but...you’re not letting them weigh you down.” Gloria says softly, no bitterness in her tone. She flashes you a sweet smile, just to make sure you’re not offended. You return it, even if yours is small and doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

“I wouldn’t say that. I’ve been stuck for a long time.” You counter, inwardly amused at your own private joke.

She tilts her head towards the clouded sky, eyes peering between the tree branches to look for something you’re not quite sure of.

“I got stuck. I dropped out my third year of university after I found out I was pregnant. I was in love with my son’s father. He said he would take care of us. I jumped at the chance. Lived in the moment and all that.” She says dreamily.

You feel a little uncomfortable. You’re unsure why she feels so safe in telling you this. You’ve been told by your friends and patients that you have a comforting demeanor in the past, you just never thought it extended this far.

Gloria seems to gather that though. Her eyes are wide with contemplation and she pats your shoulder.

“I’m sorry if it made you uncomfortable. But...I have a point...somewhere in this.”

You can’t help it. You make your assumption.

“So he left.”

Gloria shakes her head.

“He died. Car accident.” She says matter of factly.

You feel guilt wrap you up again for your dumb assumptions. You want to stitch up your mouth, perhaps ask Sans to use his blue magic to stop it from ever saying anything again.

“I’m...so sorry. For saying that and for your loss.”

Gloria looks at your expression and laughs.

“I’m joking. He left. Without a job or a degree, I didn’t have a lot of choice. I used to strip back in college too, to pay off my student loans. So I just took it up again.”

Your mouth works to say something, but all that comes out is an incredulous squeal. You swear you can hear Sans laughing somewhere.

“It’s okay. what we had...wasn’t always good. I sometimes still wonder, what would have happened if I hadn’t dropped out. If I’d stayed a Theta Pi and graduated with my class. Maybe…”

She trails off and you understand with painful clarity that she’s seen straight through to your wistful thinking. She’s caught something melancholy in your story and she feels It too.

You take a moment to respond, before taking a different track.

“And your kid?”

Gloria’s smile becomes impossibly soft, loving as she looks in the middle distance.

“Jason’s what keeps me going. He’s my everything.”

You frown a bit. You never quite understood that line of thinking. Putting all stock and your value in another person. It never seemed fair to the person being cared for and to the one caring. Too much burden of expectation always leading to disappointments.

(Oh what a little hypocrite you are. Wasn’t that what you did to Sans at the beginning? Wasn’t that what he did to you?)

“You’re not scared he’ll grow up and not be what you wanted.”

Gloria hums.

“Of course I am. And then I remember that Jason’s a little person all his own. And I remember the disappointment I was to my parents. That’s what happens when you care about others. It complicates things.”

You frown, and she laughs again, nudging your shoulder with hers.

“My point is things will hurt. You’ll have more regrets. You’ll struggle...especially since he’s a monster. There are still prejudiced idiots and I’m afraid there always will be.”

You stop in your tracks, feeling dread curl heavy in your stomach and you feel the heavy feeling in your chest solidify into something painful.

You give her a wide eyed stare, and your fear dissipates when you don’t see a hint of judgement in her eyes.

“You were kind of obvious about it, sweetie. Your descriptions were vague, and there’s something so lovely about how easy it is to love them, isn’t it? What I’m trying to say hon, is that no matter what, in this moment, you love him. I think that’s just enough to keep going isn’t it? Whatever happens...whether you tell him or not...whether you end up together or not, those feelings of yours are precious. Accept them.”

You find yourself nodding along, even if you’re completely sure to deny every part of this later. A warm realization settles over your heart, and there’s a brief joy for the world that had turned to let you meet him.

——

Sans listens with a full heart. His regrets are many. He’s let them grow and spread tendrils through him until he’s rooted to one spot. Waiting and watching and always too late.

He’s a master of space but not of time.

But when he watches your expressions shift, warm and alive as Gloria spins her advice, he feels like he’s found something good enough to start moving for.

You’d made him move and you’re still making him learn a lot about how to live even after everything seems lost.

Something settles heavy in his chest, straining hard against his ribs and he can feel a spiraling string of his own magic seeking you out with a strange possessiveness.

There are very few things he wants to keep. There are very few people he will fight Time itself for. He realizes with a harrowing certainty, that you are one of them.

You are his and he is yours. Time-forged friends.

But it’s not enough. Somehow...there’s a dissatisfaction in that thought. He wants...more. But he’s not sure what more means...and he doesn’t want to contemplate that because Papyrus is still missing and Time could pull you away again.

And you deserve so much better than a being who is barely being held together by spite and Patience and a shattered sense of Justice.

Still, his golden hope blooms beautifully as he takes in your eyes bright by dappled sunlight and your hair falling messily from the style you’d put it in this morning. In this moment, in all these moments, he’s finding you brilliant.

He’s always been proud of his eidetic memory. Always been proud of being able to remember things exactly as he’d seen them. He tells himself that no matter what happens, he has these memories of you to keep. That he can always imagine a time where you had met him under different circumstances...

The ache in his chest tells him it’s still not enough.  
—-

“you’ve gotten better at lying, kid.” He tells you quietly that night.

You startle, staring up from your phone and the five or so missed calls from your Dad and Catherine. You’d been wondering why the sudden urgency in their calls, but somehow they all feel so far away. Your old life is starting to feel like something out of a dream, and the only real things are the old mattress under you and Sans.

Sans, who’s half-lidded eyes look at you from under his pile of covers, bright lights blown out and fading as he looks at you.

You’re still in your jeans and blue sweater from earlier. Your head is filled up with so many thoughts, so you spend some time contemplating your answer.

“It’s easier when some of it is true.” You tell him, still looking at your phone screen because you can’t face him when it feels like your face is going to peel away from all the heat in your cheeks.

He sucks in a sharp breath and you hope with all your being that he’s not going to ask what he asks.

“what parts were true?”

(You think you’re imagining it, but there’s a hopeful note in there that sends your thoughts reeling.)

You struggle to come up with a coherent answer. ‘All of it.’ Comes to mind, and you quickly dash that through with a dozen sharp thoughts.

You glance up at him, a teasing smile pulling up the corners of your mouth.

“The parts where you annoyed me and the parts where you made me laugh.”

He snorts.

“of course. i’m a comedy master.”

You roll your eyes and throw your pillow across the room at him. It lands with a dull thud at the foot of his bed, and you pout as he uses his magic to levitate to his increasingly large pile of pillows.

“‘More like a comedy disaster, but sure. Whatever floats your boat.”

“it’s my humor that keeps this relation-ship going.”

You laugh heartily, levity and appreciation making you feel a whole lot lighter.

“Water you talking about, Snazzy? It’s clearly my kindness keeping us going.”

“it is.” He says with a startling seriousness. His eyes are wide and the lights in them are softly floating stars, gently winking at you with a meaningfulness you’re not sure you want to delve into.

Your laughter gets stuck in your throat and you shake your head.

“That’s a hard sail...you’ve been keeping me afloat for a while now Sans.” You say, staring at your phone, but not quite seeing the screen through your blurred vision.

“is it so hard to believe that it goes both ways, ____?that you’ve saved me too?”

“A little bit, Sans. Just a little bit.”

He sighs in clear disappointment and you don’t have the courage to continue, so you distract him with a little bit of the truth. You curl up against your remaining pillow, and lay facing away from Sans.

“Hey, hey...Sans…”

He hums sleepily and you know he’s barely listening. It gives you the boost of courage you need to tell him-

“I like you. That’s the truth.”

There’s a long, agonizing pause wherein you hope you can still find refuge in audacity. There’s nothing special in the tone you’ve taken. You’ve made it light. Friendly.

He takes it as you mean it.

“heh...i like you too, bud. you’re a great pal.”

You ignore the sharp lance of pain that goes through your chest.

This is what you wanted, isn’t it?  
———

They’ve got her and they've got you.

Sort of. There's a lot more agency here, a bit of fairness that not even the jackass in the suit across from you can circumvent.

It's a day after your talk with Gloria. You and Sans had decided to confront Gloria’s kidnappers, save her and maybe twist some answers out of the assailants. You'd agreed without hesitation.

The thing is, neither he nor you had anticipated the sheer number of assailants that had been sent for her...four of them for one woman of nondescript appearance. Sans said the last loop had only given him two humans to knock down.

The strangeness of it all fills with you trepidation. Sans had pulled in three of them into a confrontation...had told you to take a frightened Gloria and run.

You wanted to cry. Leaving him behind, terrifying in his anger and left eye erupting in fierce blue magic. Then you'd been trapped, by one of the suited men and the little pitiful Whimsun he's threatening.

Your Soul had been pulled out almost too willingly into a confrontation, twisting with a fight you're not entirely sure is yours. Gloria hadn't been caught in the sphere of the confrontation, you'd pushed her away from you as soon as you felt the tugging in your chest.

You still want to cry, but she's behind you and she's scared. Unmoving. She cannot accept the circumstance. You know the feeling well.

But there's something about having a predetermined goal that makes you able to move with the same practiced calm you experience in the emergency room.

The man is easily closer to seven feet than six, broad shouldered and with the most dispassionate look on his face. You can deal with hate and anger. You can't deal with uncaring resolve. It throws you off kilter.

His hand moves to his hip. There's an eerily bulky shape there that makes you understand. He's got a gun.

Your baseball bat hangs uselessly in your right hand. It's your turn, but you're stalling. If you can just hold them here, you could wait for help. If you call like last time, your turn would be over.

Gloria is sprawled on the ground behind you, tears in her eyes as she struggles to speak. She looks at you and the guard and the whimpering Whimsun with so much confusion.

This corner of the empty park has descended into a gray monocolor, the light from the street lamps is pale in comparison to the purple magic flooding from your Soul and the light of the man’s brilliant yellow Soul.

The color makes you feel ill. The juxtaposition is strangely ironic, and having yourself exposed like this makes you fearful.

The Whimsun looks at you with sorrow, a thousand apologies streaming from behind its small hands.

“I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.”

You feel a pang of absolute empathy for them. Cornered as you are on this empty park on a lawn littered with yellow dandelions, you can only wonder at the horrors that the poor monster has been subjected to...to be forced into violence. Something about Ms. Goldy’s helpless sprawl on the ground rings painfully familiar in your mind. There's someone that makes her want to stand up, but she's got the assurance that he's likely safe at home.

It's her they want. The question is why.

The word is out of your mouth before you think. Your Soul pulses with the intent to know.

You Ask.

Your turn is over before you can blink.

“Crap.” You bite out, bracing yourself for the swell of magic that makes the ends of your hair float and your throat go dry.

The Whimsun cries, and there's visible effort on its face as it reigns in the force of the bullets pulled forth from its magic in concert with an outlash of magic from the man’s yellow Soul. You flinch, feeling the damage ache dimly in your chest. You manage to block some of the bullets by swinging your bat, but there are too many.

You drop your bat in favor of shielding your Soul. It still takes a hit. You whimper in pain, the edges of it warm and wavering against your fingertips.

9/10 HP

The poor Whimsun actually bursts into tears, apologizing again.

The violent intent has been dulled by the Whimsun’s reluctance. You shoot it a watery grateful smile and the man actually grumbles with frustration. The next volley is more painful, raw human magic washing over your own with a fierce desire to hurt.

You stumble backward with a cry of pain, blindly lashing out with your hands...anything to make the hurt radiating through the invisible connection to your Soul.

A hazy impression of numbers flashes in your mind’s eye.

7/10 HP

The flow of the magic is tangible. A wave of invisible energy cresting over you, enough to make yellow light spark in your sight, tingling past the tips of your fingers.

There's equal ground built into the way this works, you think. A turn based system specifically designed to mitigate the power a human with ill intent can unleash...but you're woefully outmatched by someone who clearly knows what he's doing.

He makes a tugging movement with his large hand, his Soul is jerked backward nearly painfully, and it seems to pulse with his roiling Intent. It's almost enough to astound you, the way he's come to fully accept his Soul as an extension of himself. Enough to hurt.

You recognize the sparking edges of the Soul as a precursor to another attack.

Something about this Justice is corrupted. It leaves a coppery, gritty taste in your mouth that reminds you of blood and dust. Each time you've taken a blow has left you with pain and a feeling of wrongness.

You want to throw up and every part of you recoils from this last circle of butterfly shaped bullets. They're kind of pretty, tinged a sickly yellow as they shoot at you.

You actually dive this time, not giving yourself time to think, and roll instinctively to the left. You can smell the dirt and grass that's smeared on your clothes now, and you feel a shiver of fear when there's a loud whistling sound and then a fierce crackling.

You look up to see a burning hole in the grass, where you head was just a few seconds ago.

“Lucky little shit, aren't ya?” The man laughs and calls back his Soul with a lazy gesture.

The sharp magic trails away past you and something shifts. The tide turns, and you feel the cresting wave of energy change direction, pushing your Soul to do something.

It's your turn again. You hold off, locking up your words and pondering the possibilities that branch out in your mind. They scroll faintly through your thoughts like an old timey film and you won't choose or you'll lose your turn.

You brace yourself onto your hands, crushing a few yellow dandelions underneath. You try pushing yourself up past the stiff ache that pervades every part of you. No matter how much you will it, your shaking legs just won't help you stand.

You're not entirely angry now. You're unsure of what to do. Powerless. Useless.

Your Soul floats farther from your chest than before, wavering in your indecision. Sans isn't coming…worry creeps up your throat and makes your unshed tears sting again.

There's a sudden stuttering then. A broken record repeating an unwanted lyric...A sense of deja vu that makes you tremble in fear. It's a refusal..the sensation comes from somewhere behind you.

9/10 HP

Your Soul feels stagnant. Your opponents look slightly confused. The man has his hand raised for another attack. That doesn't...make sense...wasn't it just your turn?

The violent intent is dulled by the Whimsun’s reluctance. You shoot it a (familiar) grateful smile and the man actually grumbles with (familiar) frustration. The next volley is-

Wait a minute...you've done this before.

You know just where he'll aim. You merely dive away from where you'd previously been.

You land on your hands, shuddering with this feeling of wrongness. You feel like you might just unravel. Wilt away into stardust...this is…

A sharp little groan punctuates your thoughts.

At first you think it's Gloria. But she's been catatonic since the beginning of the encounter. One peek from the corner of your eye tells you she's still lying on the ground, gaping in horror at something on your other side.

She's pointing now, mouthing something that you can't quite catch beyond the crackling of magic.

There's a brief blip in the washed out colors of the confrontation. like the lights of a passing car cutting through the long shadows that you used to watch in your apartment.

A familiar feeling...something from a nightmare...something from a dream.

You suppress a scream of horror as you feel thick vines wrap around your left shoulder, so delicately curling up your arm and around your back.

A flash of bright yellow in your peripheral vision as golden petals brush against your temple.

“Well, howdy partner!” Says that same wispy voice so close to your ear, sweet and eerie and hollow all at once.

You feel a second onslaught of fear. Your nightmares of choking on golden flowers flash in your head, causing you to shake with the memory of your own death.

Here was your killer. Perched blithely on your shoulder with a cheerful greeting. You want to shout. To rebel against a world that seems to be intent on breaking you apart in every way.

But you can't move. Just like always.

Soft tendrils whisper past your collar bone, leaves brushing past your neck until you realize you're entirely cradled in thin vines.

“Pathetic. Get up, it's our turn now.” The voice turns harsh, demanding and so quiet only you can hear him.

You can feel his vines shifting slightly, gathering you up and you just might be going insane, but he's helping you get up.

There's no warmth to the gesture. Hardly any stability, but the magic is also tugging at your Soul, urging you to make a move. Something feels different...you don't feel entirely alone anymore. No longer floating in an upwelling of magic without guidance. That's just enough to get past your initial fear and disgust.

Something like a refusal rests in your thoughts, presses against your Soul so wrongly. It feels both supportive and repelling.

The usual purple of your Soul is darkening, shimmering into a burgundy strangely like dried blood. It feels dangerous...heady. You're filled with an out of place confidence...this isn't you...but your hands itch. Your fingers want to reach and wrap around this man’s throat, to pull the red string of Time from his existence until you unravel him.

You look on in horror, shaking your head. Even the man and the Whimsun seem to be shocked by the change in your demeanor. You wonder what expression youre making that would have them so scared. They stare at your darker Soul with apprehension.

But you use your own version of a refusal.

“I...I don't want this.” You tell yourself, and claw at the vines without thought. You set your sight on the little abandoned bat in the middle of your Confrontation.

A point of clarity. A reminder of past and present and a hope for a future. Your golden hope is strangely absent, replaced by a vaguely purple bloom that you can just make out in the depths of your darkened Soul.

You accept yourself as you are. Powerless, but you. And beyond the darkening color, a spot of purple flares wide open, chasing away the burgundy until you feel clarity.

It catches your partner by surprise. So much so, you manage to wriggle free, hurling him away from you.

“Stupid. Idiot.” He hisses as he falls unceremoniously to the ground, wriggling somewhat comically as he struggles to regain his bearings.

Finally free, you lurch forward, half crawling as you wrap your shaking fingers around the bat. The smooth aged wood feels like home underneath your heated skin.

The magic suddenly surges and your Soul becomes a silvery purple, thin and spinning as it trails behind your erratic movements.

There's a metallic clicking sound that pierces your relief. The melancholy weeping of Whimsun.

You look up, to see the barrel of the gun pointed at you. The man’s face is strangely apologetic as he aims.

You'd used up your turn. You don't have time to accept.

You only think of your usual litany of apologies, wondering just how Sans is going to handle this death. You figured your luck had run out several time loops ago.

You close your eyes tight, preferring not to see your demise coming.

There's a deafening bang.

But then there's that familiar repeat, and you're back where you started. On your hands and knees, fighting to keep your turn from passing.

There's the same cluster of dandelions, crushed under your fingers.

Realization is heady and the adrenaline rushing through you makes the colors spinning in your thoughts blend into sense. Golden flowers and golden stars and Time and skipping.

Get up. Get up. Get up. Make a wish.

Your mind is working overtime.

“You...you're the one who…res-” You can't finish your sentence. He presses a leaf up against your mouth, stopping up your words.

Again...the tendrils have snaked over your legs, again you can feel him crawling up your shoulder. But it doesn't feel threatening. Whatever his magic, you want no part of it in your Soul...but you're willing to take this assistance right now.

His stem rises high, his petals once again resting against your mud encrusted hair.

“Who do you think you are? Rejecting my magic. Pathetic.”

He sounds insulted beyond belief. You still make no move to shove him off again. Despite the fact that he's not all that heavy, you somehow feel slower. More sluggish with him wrapped around your arm. Your Soul tells you that this time it's okay.

You give him a subtle nod, your mouth twisted into a grimace.

He seems to relax a bit at your acceptance, his angry expression turning into a scathing reproach. It's oddly cute on his cartoony face.

“You should have just let me take control...screw it...do what I say, or you and the Red Soul behind us are going to die. At least she'd be more useful right now.”

This takes you by surprise. Enough that you can speak to him, making sure to think over and over that you're just talking to your partner, not taking your turn.

The words are slow, reluctant because you feel that same old inadequacy lurching in your chest.

“R-red Soul? Why does it matter?” You mutter. “What do they want?...What do you want?”

He seems to waver at this, turning to you until you can see the flat plane of his face, his beady eyes narrowed in discontent, his mouth twisted into a sneer. His vines tighten around your arm, and you resist the urge to flinch.

The heavy magic from before returns, and you just want this to be over.

“Rude. You don't even ask my name. It's FLOWEY and you should thank me for helping you.” He twists a bit to look forward, using his leaves to make your hand turn back to the front. “Now pay attention to what I say.”

Despite everything, despite a journey that had taken you far from the ocean and under stars and beyond the desert, you're still you.

And the truth is you as you are need help, wherever you can get it.

Resolve seeps into your body and the magic seems to swell in response.

“Good. Don't hesitate. Attack.” He says shortly, and you can finally see the full list of options unravel in your mind. The thought of hurting anyone sits wrong in your heart, and you know your Intent won't be anywhere strong enough to do it.

There's a tempting option resting just at the base of your thoughts. Call for help. It’s a thought colored in blue, heavy and comforting and solid.

Almost as soon as the thought settles into the forefront of your mind, Flowey hisses in dissatisfaction and something red and sharp negates that option.

You wince as the sensation mingles with his rough stem wrapping tighter around your shoulder.

“The Smiley Trashbag is occupied. I'm here. Don’t waste our turn. Attack, you idiot.” He pauses, looking across the lawn at the man and his captive. “And be careful not to hurt the Whimsun.” He adds this as an afterthought, his harsh expression softening with something you could almost call pity.

The Whimsun is small. Startlingly fragile, with scrabbling limbs and antennae reaching out to you in a plea.

The sight sparks an intensely painful feeling in you. Enough to make the tears prick in your eyes. Flowey seems to sense the mental precipice you are standing on. The last vestiges of your emotional control are strained.

He gives a long suffering sigh, leans in a little more to whisper against your temple.

“Don't fail...not like you failed your brother.”

You don't question how he knows. You don't question it because something in you remembers. GB’s dust. GB’s broken wings. GB on a bed, attached to so many tubes, you couldn't tell where the machines ended and he began. Running until the world moved backwards. Falling on a bed of golden stars. A laughing flower. A refusal and the world going dark.

Through your tears, you see your Soul glow brighter, until it's nothing but a watery purple blob.

It's just enough to gather the rest of your willpower and crystallize your Intent. Just enough to make the innate power of your Soul coalesce into a purple glistening haze that wraps around Flowey’s little bullets with alacrity.

It looks oddly pretty, flaring around the white seeds like the petals of some strange floating flowers. You can finally feel the wave of magic cresting, Flowey gives a weird giggle of satisfaction.

Then you Act! With a garbled yell, you leap forward, hand outstretched to direct the wave of energy towards the man and not the Whimsun.

The world explodes in a whirl of color and light. You can hardly see anything but Flowey’s silhouette, and there's a silence that consumes all of you.

You close your eyes and there's a feeling of melancholy that threads its tendrils up your throat until you feel the world could give you exactly any outcome and Time would do its best to heal the wounds.

You Accept and you break free, forward.  
\---

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAHAHA SURPRIIIIIISE SINNABEE! IM SORRY. THIS GOT AWAY FROM ME AND I RAN FORWARD WITH IT ahhhhhhhhhhh. TAG you’re it :D
> 
> Thank you to everyone who’s still here. Really, thank you so much for reading and commenting and following this story <3


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